


The Lightkeeper

by WritingCactus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Baking, Canon-Typical Unreality, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Everybody Lives, Explicit Consent, Gardens & Gardening, Haunting, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, I am a touch-starved lesbian and that's everyone else's problem now, I hate Plukas so much lol, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lighthouses, Nonbinary Character, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, can you tell I play a lot of stardew valley?, fuck martin's mom all my homies hate martin's mom, literally so much pining you guys. so much, michael shows kittycat affection. my house my rules, no beta we die like men, non-canon typical communication, season 1 gang, this is. so extremely sappy and cheesy but I will NOT be stopped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCactus/pseuds/WritingCactus
Summary: Martin's not expecting to be transferred from the Institute to a little island and a job he's even less qualified for. He expects his new... acquaintance even less.(Updates every-other Saturday.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Michael
Comments: 167
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I read Something Rich and Strange, then read a tumblr post about lighthouses, and then this happened. I think this is the fastest I have ever had an idea, started working on that idea, and then actually finished that idea, which shows you how much the thought "hhhgg Michael/Martin in a lighthouse" possessed me. 
> 
> I don't actually have a strong appearance headcanon for Martin (I just see art of him and start crying) BUT this man is fat and I will stand by that. Other than that, how he looks in this fic is up to interpretation!!! Also, I outlined this whole thing and wrote a good chunk of it before season five started, so I'm going to ignore any canon that contradicts it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> Enjoy!!!!

Martin is pretending so, so hard that he knows how lighthouses work. Sure, he’s got the basic concept of putting out a big beam of light to guide ships, but that’s about it. He’d picked up a manual on the way to the island but hadn’t actually had time to do more than skim the chapter titles before Mr. Lukas had started the tour, so he’s improvising. That, at least, is a skill that Martin’s had plenty of time to perfect in the line of work he’d lied his way into. Still, as he’s shown around the grounds and taken up the stairs to the lantern room itself, he tries his very hardest to play along. That might just be asking what he hopes are good questions and nodding along like he has any idea what a fresnel lens, but Mr. Lukas doesn’t seem to be paying much attention anyway. 

If Martin wasn’t very sure that he’s incapable of having any sense of humor at all, he’d think that Elias recommended him for the positon of lightkeeper as a joke. As it is, Martin has to believe that he’s somehow serious. The fact that this is nothing like the Institute might even be a good thing, considering last month’s incident where they’d been briefly barricaded inside by worms, so long as he figures out how to actually do his job. Having a horrible worm woman break into the office can smear any workplace environment. 

Still, general weirdness aside, he’s technically just being transferred (something about this guy being a sponsor? Martin was too busy being nervous to listen) and the pay is considerably better. Between the free lodgings, the amount of money he’ll be able to send back to his mother, and the distinct impression he’d be out of both jobs if he refused, there wasn’t all that much choice. 

There’s also the tiny detail that he’s leaving his hopeless, stupid feelings behind right along with Jon and, hey, out of sight, out of mind, right? It’s clearly not going anywhere, no matter how much it hurts to admit it, so it’s probably for the best. 

He just trails after Mr. Lukas all throughout the lightstation, across the rocky ground and through the cottage at the base of the lighthouse where he’s going to live (oh god). The man doesn’t seem particularly interested in quizzing him or making much conversation at all, really, so Martin lets himself space out just a little. It’s mid-spring but the sea air is still cooler than he’s used to, wrapping all around them on the small island, the earth covered with scraggly grass and a shore built from more rocks than sand reaching out into the waves. In addition to the lighthouse and the cottage, there’s a few run-down little shacks and sheds that don’t look like anyone’s set foot in them… ever, really. He can see the mainland and the closest village in the distance, but there’s still way more water between here and there than he would like, which would be none at all. 

And then, with no more than the most basic tour of the grounds, Mr. Lukas hands over the keys and is gone, leaving Martin alone on a little island with a job he doesn’t know how to do. 

He spends the first few days and nights just trying to keep the place from going up in flames, except for the lantern that’s very much supposed to be on fire. It might be a pain climbing all the way to the lantern room twice a night, but the light itself is pretty stunning. It’s a large, simple lamp inside of an even larger and significantly less simple dome, made out of thin circles of glass ringed around each other, arching and reflecting all different colors. It’s covered in grime on his first day, but by the second, it’s gleaming, which is really just the bare minimum of his job. The glass dome—that’s the fresnel lens, it turns out—revolves to let out the light from the lantern through only one of its sides, and he has to crank up the mechanism below it to keep it turning. 

But as much Peter Lukas had looked the part of being a lightkeeper, the lamp’s not the only thing fallen into complete disrepair. The lantern room is first, and the most important, but it’s clear on a closer look that every building on the island is dirty. Not rotten dirty or even lived-in, but the dust and grime that comes with no living at all. There’s barely any food in the cupboards, no pictures on the walls, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s ever even sat on the big bed that takes up most of the space in his new bedroom. 

This also means he has to haul a bunch of supplies up the stairs to the maintenance room just below the light. And there are So Many Stairs. Martin actually really likes walking, likes the fresh air and stretching his legs after sitting all day and getting to see the scenery, but two hundred tiny steps when he’s hauling up boxes? Not so much. 

So he builds a routine, even if it’s not be very exciting. He teaches himself how to sail, kind of, because all he’s got is the tiny little boat the island came with and he’s going to have to head to the mainland eventually. He gets soaked twice in the process, but kind-of-sort-of gets the hang of it before a third. 

More importantly, he writes it all down in a little notebook: what supplies he’s used and how his day went and what he’ll do tomorrow. The answer, generally, is not very much at all. The days blend together something awful.

Martin wakes up in the morning already cold, chilled through by the damp of the sea until the sun breaks through. The air outside of his blanket is even worse when he forces himself to get up, but he manages. Bathing and dressing and wandering to the little kitchen are all a blur. He eats a lot of plain oatmeal, which is warm but doesn’t really have much else going for it, and drinks tea. 

Holding the warm mug in his hands, he sits with his back pressed up against the cool wood of the window frame and his eyes trained out on the distant shore, watching. When it’s foggy or he’s up before the sun, Martin can see the soft yellow light of the houses out there, can wonder about what lives are lived so very far away. He sits and imagines the people going about their days, the food they make, the books they read, the laughter that they share. It’s impossible to pretend that he isn’t separate from it all, cut off by more than just empty water. The thought puts an awful sort of ache in his chest, when he sits there long enough that his tea goes cold, but Martin doesn’t stop himself. 

When he makes himself move again, it’s to work. At midday he eats lunch out on the cliff edge of the island, where it’s warm and a little less depressing. The sandwiches he makes for himself are kind of boring, but at least they’re mostly edible. If he went to town, he’d buy mustard and maybe some cheese, but he hasn’t bothered with that since he first passed through on his way to the Lighthouse. It just. It seems like a bit too much of a hassle, when he’s not going to run out of food anytime soon.

After he eats, Martin goes for a walk, or reads, or writes poetry, or cleans something again, just trying to hurry through the afternoon. When dusk begins to settle, he climbs the tall gray tower and lights the lantern at its peak, or begins the hourly blowing of the foghorn if the weather forces it. 

The lighthouse is different when the darkness settles, heavier, somehow, and he just sits and waits, trying to distract himself, to do something to keep his mind off of how far he is from any other person under that beam of light. 

He writes letters to his mother and can’t quite convince himself she’ll read them. She must know that he’s changed jobs, from the amount of money he’s sending her, more than enough for her treatment and the nurses who care for her, but he can’t say for sure if she knows he’s moved. He knows she wouldn’t care.

He tries to write to Sasha (and, by extension, Tim, who’d promised he would read all her mail just to be sure they kept in touch), but can’t quite get the words to start. She’d  _ asked _ him to write to her, to let all of them know how it was, to come back if he didn’t like it, but… he doesn’t have anything to say. Her and Tim are probably busy, and he doesn’t want to distract them by talking about nothing, rambling on about killing time or something stupid. He tells himself he’ll write when something happens, with the sneaking suspicion that it never will. 

He wonders if they would notice.

It doesn’t take long for the routine to become his life, filling out the edges of it completely. He wakes up and knows exactly what, if anything, the day holds and hardly thinks of the Institute at all.

It takes longer for things to turn weird; just a little over a month passes before he’s not alone on the island at all. At first, Martin doesn’t piece together that something’s wrong, not until he looks back at all the little oddities and they add up into a much bigger “huh”.

His books are in the wrong place, first of all. He’s not the type to have a spot for every single one, but he does try and keep them in groups, more about what they feel like to him than anything else. But then there’s a Bishop in with his nonfiction, and that isn’t right at all. So he moves that book back and finds that others are wrong, too. Martin’s not actually opposed to an afternoon of rearranging, at least not once he convinces himself he just… put them back in the wrong place. All 16 of them. 

But then he keeps getting lost in places he knows. Walking back from lunch, he’ll take a step with the lighthouse right in front of him and somehow end up turned around, staring out at the ocean or an empty expanse of the island, and it’ll take him a few minutes to figure out where exactly he is. Even standing in his own bedroom, sometimes everything around him corkscrews when he blinks, and nothing at all is familiar. But he’s not missing any time, and he doesn’t feel sick, doesn’t feel like something’s wrong with him. It just feels like something wrong with  _ everything _ . 

The hallway into his bedroom is the only part of the cottage with wallpaper, a terrible, faded old green pattern, and, somewhere between the getting lost and the laughter, it starts moving. The lines bend and twist, shooting off from each other or curling into an endless knot that makes his head ache when he looks at it, and he can’t seem to stop. But Martin is about 80% sure that he’s not going crazy. See, two days after he found himself standing in the empty hallway and watching the wallpaper shift, he started drawing the patterns of it in his notebook, and those don’t change. He can see where the lines have moved, exactly, from hour to hour, and checks the notebook often enough to make sure that nothing about it has changed. 

And then comes the laughter. It’s a strange, echoing sort of thing, shaking through him even when it sounds so far away, just on the edges of his awareness. When Martin focuses, tries to listen for it, it’s gone. But he’s left with all his hairs on end, every nerve in his body tensed at once, and a buzz at the corners of his skull. Sometimes, there’s even flashes of color, shapes and patterns and lines that appear at the edges of his vision, twisting and circling and snaring. 

When he wakes up with cuts on his hands, Martin’s had enough.

There’s one on each palm, the thin white line that marks a light scratch, but they refuse to fade. A tight-knit spiral marks his right hand, tracing out from the center and ending at the soft skin of his wrist. The left is a series of impossibly small, sharp lines, wound together in a hazy mess that he has trouble looking away from and which seems much bigger than it has any right to be.

Now, there’s getting a little confused after living by himself on an island for awhile, and then there’s whatever this is. He works at— _ worked _ at the Magnus Institute, for Pete’s sake, and he can recognize a… a supernatural threat even when he’s trying to pretend it’s not one. Martin might dread facing the town after putting it off for so long, but he needs to know for sure if other people can see the marks. Also, he just really needs more food besides plain oatmeal.

He’d only gotten a quick look around the little town on his first pass through, and it’s even nicer than he remembers. It’s a port town, to warrant such a tall lighthouse, decent-sized but still quaint, packed with little cottages and the warmly-lit windows he’d seen from his own. People even smile at him as he passes or stop to introduce themselves. It’s surprisingly welcome, and he finds himself chatting easily, doing his best to remember names and faces, answering questions about how he’s holding up and asking about the town itself. He’s almost able to forget all about the scars across his hands. 

And then Martin leans up against the side of a building with one hand, palm pressed flat the warm brick, and there’s a wrenching sensation all the way through his arm and into the center of him, something between there and not, and it hurts in a way that has no name at all. He barely keeps from yelling, just shaking his arm out instead, and it’s clear that he doesn’t even get the luxury of a distraction. 

But Martin refuses to let that stop him from finishing his shopping, dammit. Not after he spent so long just waiting, he decides, stopping by the bakery to get some fresh bread and a little cherry pastry for himself, then to the library to exchange his books for a dozen more, and then to the seamstress’s store to get a few sturdier sweaters. 

By then, with his basket full of fresh things to eat and stories to read and attempts to know his neighbors, Martin has psyched himself up enough to ask about the marks. Mostly. 

So he approaches the least intimidating people he can find, two friendly-looking old women who’d given him a nice mug on his way to the island the first time, and he asks if the lighthouse is haunted. There’s not really any way to dodge around the issue, but he tries, padding his words with as much pleasantry as he can cram in there. They gasp, shaking their heads no but asking what he means, clearly looking for some gossip, and, well, he’s there now. 

Trying not to show his disappointment at not getting any real answers, he tries to explain the unexplainable without actually upsetting them. The sense of delirium, getting lost in the mundane, and, when he shows his hands, the women gasp a second time, at least proving that they’re real. Before he can listen to what they have to say, a different sort of something prickles at the back of his neck, almost like it’s walking up him. Martin excuses himself. 

He turns to see the owner of the small clothing shop (Annabelle, maybe?) facing him, not turning away even as he catches her staring. Or, at least, he thinks she’s staring; the bangs of her white-blonde hair reach almost down to her nose, blocking out her eyes completely, but it’s never actually struck him as odd. Her tall, slim frame is draped in heavy, flowing fabrics, bright against her dark skin, and he  _ knows _ she’s watching him. 

Moving without thinking, he approaches her, feet sure on the cluttered ground even though he’s never been here before, moving almost of their own accord. She doesn’t seem at all surprised when he just lifts his hands, inspecting them carefully as he works on being able to talk

“Um. Do you know what these are? What they mean?” He asks, though it’s pretty clear that she does, from the way she’s twisting his hands back and forth to get a closer look, not at all concerned that they’re still attached to him. 

“Yes,” she sighs, pausing, and something tells him not to hurry her along. 

“It’s a rather poor attempt at a greeting, in my opinion. You’re going to have to be much clearer than that, if you can even manage it.” She tilts her head upwards, just speaking into the air instead of to him, her voice still calm and low and pleasant but tinged with venom. He thinks he resists the urge to pull his hands back, but they hardly even feel like his own.

“Really, so dramatic for nothing.” She releases him and he finds his palms numb.

Annabelle gives no indication of continuing, grabbing a needle and thread out of somewhere in her heavy skirt, turning to work on a large quilt. He just stays there, rooted to the spot and a little dizzy, watching as she tears the thread between her teeth and begins arcing the needle through the thin red fabric with quick, precise movements, until a different movement catches his eye.

There’s a small brown spider crawling across a container full of buttons like it’s scaling mountains, long legs moving and tugging its way up slowly but persistently. He leans down carefully to watch its journey across the different colors, fully distracted until he feels Annabelle watching him again. Martin startles, scratching at of the back of his neck, but she still makes no move to say anything. The spider is unbothered between them. 

“Uh, can I?” He asks, nodding towards it, and she nods in return. It’s going to bother him to just leave it there, when any other customer might be less sympathetic and crush it, so he scoops it into his palm, walking the little guy over to a potted plant that seems safer. “I don’t mind spiders.” He shrugs as he walks back over, and keeps going because the conversation’s strange enough already and the silence feels awkward. “I mean, I prefer the bigger ones, where they’re kind of chunky and you can see all their fur, but the little guys are good, too.” 

That, at least, gets an almost-smile out of her, and he offers a shaky one in return, distinctly lost. 

“I wouldn’t worry about your hands, or any of it. You won’t be harmed. Annoyed, I’m sure, but not harmed,” Annabelle offers, before turning and retreating into the draped fabric and tangled thread of her shop, leaving Martin more confused than ever. But hey, at least that’s something, and he feels ready to move again, his head clearing up from a fog he hadn’t even noticed. He believes her completely, somehow.

The second he sets foot back on the island there’s a Difference, in the air and the ground and the buzz at the edges of his consciousness, and Martin sighs. Might as get whatever’s building over with.

By the time he’s lit the lantern, his palms are alive with static. But nothing else strange has happened just yet and he’s still got the rest of the night, so he decides to write the Archives a letter. He settles down into the lantern light at his little driftwood desk and finds that the words actually work this time. 

Getting into town got him out of his own head, which helps an awful lot. First of all, they’re his friends. Second of all, if they do secretly hate him and only ever talked to him out of pity (which isn’t even that likely), they’re all mature adults and don’t actually have to write back. 

As he writes, he can imagine Sasha’s excitement when he gets to the strange stuff, or Tim grabbing the letter and putting on his best stage voice to read it, and how Jon would scoff and point out all the holes in the logic of what’s really happening to him even as it makes his chest twist— 

The candle on Martin’s desk goes out, pitching him into a deep, inky darkness, the world pushed down into vague shapes. Something blows it out. And the something is behind him. 

He can feel the buzz of its presence all at once, not quite real but very much  _ there _ , and Martin flails his hands though the dark for the cold metal of the striker, manages a spark, and relights the lantern. The warm light shows nothing behind him at all, of course, but the shadows it casts blur and twist at the edges, curling out higher and higher.

And he realizes it is time to check on the light. He knows this in the way one knows everything in dreams, but it shouldn’t be, can’t be— 

The ink on his letter is entirely dry, even where the tip of the pen is still resting, and the joints of his legs ache as though they’ve been curled up for hours, and even his lantern is burned suddenly, dangerously low when he just replaced the candle. His head aches and aches, and it is time to check on the light. 

Martin stumbles his way out of his cottage and into the stairwell of the lighthouse. At the best of times, it’s a large, conical space, the stairs curling up around the edges with firm rails, tall but with the ceiling still visible above. This is not the best of times. 

He cannot see a the ceiling that should be there, marking the floor of the storage room, and instead everything just keeps going. It’s all just twisting stairs and he is climbing them already, when did he even step inside the building? He has to get to the top and keep the light going. There have never been doors lining the outside of the staircase, either. There have never been doors set into the stairs, their nobs almost tripping him as he starts to run. There has never been anywhere for them to go, nothing but solid stone for them to cling to and cold sea air on the other side, but they are there anyway, waiting to be opened. He won’t give them the satisfaction, even if curiosity about the other side tickles at the back of his mind.

He forces himself higher and higher on the creaking steps, ears ringing and vision blurring with erratic, wild colors instead of tears. Higher and Higher he climbs. 

But Martin does reach the top, just when it feels like his head might burst, when his legs have almost given out from fear and exertion, when he can’t remember why he’s on the stairs at all. There is solid wood above him, the trapdoor for the storage room already hanging open, and he scrambles up through it and out onto the balcony surrounding the lantern room. That is not where that door leads, but he can’t quite manage surprise.

Freezing sea air whips against his face and fills his lungs with burning. The darkness seems heavier than usual, cut through in turns by the rotating beam of the lighthouse. Martin stumbles backwards until he’s pressed firmly against the cool, wet stone of the building, panting, and watches the light move, eye adjusting to its brightness. Once, twice, three times it circles him, circles everything. On the fourth pass, the beam crosses the railing directly in front of him and reveals the creature in half a second’s light. 

It might be a person, if a person was built out of dozens of a child’s messy drawing and that person was never meant to be. The form is tall and gangled and bent in the wrong ways, turned to the left in a torso that really isn’t supposed to have a joint, looming high above him with ease. Bony and jagged and soaked with color, the figure has a mane of curly blonde hair much too large and sharp-bright eyes that might be green and might be all the colors of an oil slick on water and a mouth that is rather too large for any face at all, full of pointed teeth and too much smile. Their hands, crossed almost politely behind their back, are long enough to poke out on either side and end in deadly-looking claws. Their shape shifts slightly at the edges, blurs, as though it’s meant for an endless body instead of this warped one.

Martin gasps, pressing himself back further even when there’s nowhere to go; whatever door he came through is gone now. His eyes dart around wildly, trying not to look at the creature too long even as he tries to find any gaps, any hints of something real enough to be vulnerable, a way out of this. Everything up here is slick and dangerous, and, although the thing doesn’t look very strong, even if he managed to push them off he would probably just go down after them. Besides, what they look like doesn’t really matter, considering how much trouble they’ve given him already. He takes a breath of dizzy and remembers Annabelle’s words.

“Wh-what are you?” 

“Michael.” Their voice matches the rest of them, reedy and lilting, enough that it takes him a moment to understand a name that still means nothing to him. 

“And, uh, who is that, exactly?” He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound stronger in his ears. The creature—Michael?—tilts their head like he’s said something strange, almost amused. It occurs to him, distantly, that they’re handsome in a sharp sort of way, beautiful hair and tall frame, but the thought comes from the part of his brain that’s mostly delirious. 

“Me. This is what Michael is, of course. Such ridiculous questions!” Martin feels like his questions are very reasonable, thanks. 

“Why are you here? And not just right here, right now. I mean why have you been… messing with me?” He backtracks on his words, tries to fill in the spaces that they might squeeze through, and Michael’s smile widens impossibly.

“I am here to keep you company. Peter Lukas wants you to be alone, and I don’t want him to be satisfied. And I am here to introduce myself.” Michael offers their warped hand, stretched out between them as the light passes over again and again. 

“Did you… did you have to play around with me for a month to do that?” Martin can’t help but scoff, just a little, but Michael doesn’t seem to take offense.

“Why, of course,” they lie, not even bothering to fake sincerity. Martin examines the hand.

“Do I get a choice?”

“As much as with anything.”

“Great, cool, that’s, that’s really helpful. So. My ‘choices’ are: let you ‘keep me company’, whatever that means, or… be alone?” It doesn’t seem like much of a contest, considering how much trouble Michael’s presence has caused already, but.

“To put it simply, yes. But I will not hurt you, I’ve had my fun, quite a lot of it! I will simply be a counter force to the Lonely. And that will not hurt, either, but it will not  _ be _ anything at all.” 

Martin pulls his hands down his face, exasperated. He still has no real clue what’s going on, because those words don’t mean anything, but he has the distinct impression of being suddenly and deeply caught in something much bigger than himself. Bigger than the sea around them, even. He also doesn’t get the impression that Michael will be easily deterred. What he does know is that “not being” doesn’t really sound good. 

For the second time that day, Martin heaves a full-body sigh, catching sight of the stars for just a moment, high above. 

“As long as you stop moving my stuff around,  _ please _ , we shouldn’t have a problem.”

He shakes Micheal’s hand, and it is so, so heavy, all the weight of lightning wrapped around his palm and up his wrist and then all of him as a jagged grin twists up their face. It’s not very comforting. 

They release his hand after a moment, give a tilt that might be a bad imitation of a bow, and step back back though a door that hangs in empty air, shutting it behind them.

His arm still bursting with tingling pain, Martin watches the light pass over the yellow door. The next time the darkness is broken, it’s gone. 

Suddenly and understandably exhausted, he forces himself to crank the gears of the lens, walks down the now-normal stairs to the ground, and finishes his letter as normally as possible with a shaking hand. He ends it with: 

_ P.S. I think I might’ve gotten a roommate. _

_ —Martin _

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are a brief description of a very minor injury and canon-typical allusions to Martin's mom. Also, for maximum enjoyment of this fic, might I recommend imagining it in a ghibli style? Enjoy!

As it turns out, Michael doesn’t quite actually live with him, at least not by any human standards. They just make a habit of showing up, appearing out of a door that shouldn’t be there whenever they see fit, and he’s broken at least two bowls from turning around and getting a face full of creature. And then they’re just There, standing in a way that doesn’t make sense and watching him, not really answering questions even when they do respond. It takes some getting used to, to just have something (someone?) hovering around for no real reason as he eats breakfast or sleeps or tries to read, languid and entirely unbothered, but he’s got work to do. 

Martin hauls a box up over his shoulder, trying to brace it in the least uncomfortable way possible in order to carry it up a hundred stairs, but there really isn’t one. It’s early morning, with only thin light breaking through the clouds and a damp mist clinging to him, chilling him where he stands at the base of the lighthouse. All at once, he isn’t alone.

“Here, could you carry these for me?” He asks without turning, kicking towards the two remaining boxes and nearly losing his balance in the process. “Since you’re here and all, I figure you can at least help out.” 

Michael clicks their tongue but lifts both easily, stabbing their fingers right through the boxes like they’re made of marshmallows instead of wood, and Martin just hopes the cans of oil inside are unharmed. He can ignore his indignation at how easy they make it look for the fact that he won’t have to make three trips.

Michael wanders slowly behind as they climb the same staircase they’d warped beyond belief, though he can’t actually hear their footsteps. Or their breathing. Martin doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that he’s getting used to it. Instead, he focuses on climbing up into the maintenance room through the little hatch (which leads to the right place this time) and hauling up the boxes as they pass them to him. He’s trying to get a good stock going for the lantern because there’d been barely anything when he moved in; at least Lukas being some kind of isolation monster, based off of Michael’s non-answers, sort of explains the poor state of the island. 

The small room is warm and he’s got the rest of the afternoon to kill, so he leans up against a crate and pulls out his notebook. Martin doesn’t really know where he’s going with it, doesn’t have anything in the shape of a poem quite yet, but he just writes down the first words that come to mind. He’d read years ago that it can help with creativity or something like that, but all he knows for sure is that it gets something onto paper. Twenty minutes later, when he’s gone from unconnected words to long, rambling sentences (also not poetry yet, but it could end up being something close), he glances up. Michael’s sat across from him, knees bent awkwardly and arms resting across them, watching the movements of his hands closely. They aren’t able to read anything from that angle—or they shouldn’t be able to, for all the good that does—but he tucks the notebook in closer to his chest, pulling a face. 

Martin is used to being watched, between whatever ominous feeling hung over him at the Institute and the fact that Michael doesn’t seem to have any other actual hobbies. He’s made it clear that unexpected visits in the bathroom or when he’s sleeping are off limits, and, thankfully, they seem to have listened. Strange, inhuman happenings or not, there is a line. He’s not sure what side of it his writing’s on. 

“What are you writing?” Michael asks, the exact question he’d been dreading. .

“Poetry.” Which would be true if he hadn’t been interrupted. Maybe. He sits, waiting for some further response, but they seem just as lost as he feels for a bit.

“Ah. May I read some?” They ask, as though they’ve just had a particularly good idea, almost proud. Martin blinks, and then blinks again. Part of him is kind of surprised that Michael reads, which he immediately feels bad about, and the other half is instantly so,  _ so _ nervous. He hasn’t shared any of his work in months, and that was all stuff he’d polished as much as physically possible and this? This is not that. There’s about a 90% chance that it’s bad. On the other hand, he’s not super concerned with Michael in particular judging him, and he could probably use some feedback…

“I don’t see why not. But, uh, only if you really want to—you totally don’t have to or anything, really, it’s just whatever. And uh, only the stuff with titles is actually finished, so stick to that,” he babbles, mostly feeling like he’s somehow making things worse, but Michael just nods and, with a surprising delicacy, lifts the notebook from his hands. They turn through the pages slowly, sharp green(?) eyes hanging on every word, and Martin immediately regrets his decision, shrinking in on himself. There’s not actually anything he can do in terms of distractions, so he just has to sit there and think about just how much of himself has gone into the little notebook as clumsy metaphors. The light slants in through the little window, catching swirls of dust within itself as it paints over the wooden floor, and he holds his breath. 

Michael makes a noise that’s something like a chirp, high and very unexpected, and turns the book back around to him, sharp fingers wrapped around the pages they want to show. 

“I found this one  _ delightful _ ,” they say, like it’s nothing at all. Martin’s relieved to see that the poem is one he's actually proud of, then much less relieved to see that it’s definitely about his feelings for Jon. The style (if he says so himself) is odd, almost a Sestina but just not quite there, with stanzas that seem almost unrelated until the last one brings them together, or at least that’s what he was trying for. He says so, and Michael listens, turning the book back and humming in agreement. 

They continue reading, sat in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable and pointing out words or phrases or whole poems that they like every once in awhile, though he can’t quite make sense of what they like about them. The space between these comments helps Martin convince himself they’re being genuine. When he braces himself and asks for criticism, too, they offer it. That’s also sort of unintelligible at first, when they’re thinking just to the left of him, but he gets the hang of it eventually. He jots down the notes on his own palm, the black ink smudging slightly, to be moved somewhere safer when he gets the chance. The moment is too precious to break apart. 

Time has other plans, though, and it’s only when he sees how thin the sunlight’s gotten that Martin realizes how late it is, jumping to his feet in half a panic and almost falling over from sitting in the same place for hours. 

“Shit, I’ve got to make dinner before it gets dark. Uh, thanks. Thanks.” He doesn’t take the notebook back, not just yet, and Michael is still reading when he closes the hatch and starts down the stairs. 

An hour later, when he’s managed to have something that resembles soup, he heads back up the stairs. Then he backpedals down a few steps from the top and stops, cooing; there’s a spider on the wall, and a big one.

“Oh, hello there! How’d you get all the way up here, pretty girl?” And she  _ is _ a pretty girl, a tarantula that’s just a little smaller than the palm of his hand, with fur that’s mostly brown but softly pink at the edges and a chunky body. She raises one paw in his direction, and he almost starts crying on the spot. “It’s awfully cold up here. Do you want to come back down with me? There’s a fire going in the cottage, at least.” 

Not even hesitating, he places the side of his palm against the wall about a foot below where she sits. Like this is all in a day’s work, she climbs down the wall and steps gently onto his hand, fur brushing against his skin, and he laughs. Martin knows that this is not normal spider behavior, and that a tarantula like this one finding its way into the cold of his lighthouse should be a miracle, but can’t really be bothered worrying about it. Knowing and thinking are separate things, and what he thinks when she crawls up to rest on his shoulder is that he’s lucky to find such a friendly little thing.

Michael seems to have wandered off when he climbs back up through the hatch, but that’s not a surprise, and the notebook is placed carefully in the center of the room. The tarantula, however, clings to his shoulder happily as he lights the lantern and cranks the gears to keep the lens turning and checks to make sure all the glass is clear enough. By the time Martin heads back down to settle in for the night, he’s named her Penelope (Penny for short) and given up on any chance of not getting attached. Instead, he clears a small corner of his living room of empty boxes, hoping that it’s close enough to the fireplace to stay warm and has plenty of bugs for her to snack on. He genuinely considers just, putting some dirt on the floor of his house so she’ll have somewhere to burrow, but decides to think that one over a little more. 

In the few hours before he’ll have to check the lamp again, Martin talks to Penny almost the whole time. First to keep himself entertained as he tidies up for the night and then just because, explaining what he’s doing or asking her questions she can’t actually answer to make himself laugh. Eventually, she makes herself at home in the breast pocket of his shirt, peaking out with her front legs occasionally, and Martin has to take a moment to breathe and process how cute that is every time. He does manage to get her back out once he’s finished with the lantern for the night, gently placing her down into the corner and stumbling off to bed. 

By the time he wakes up the next day and realizes that, hey, having a tarantula in his living room isn’t very normal, Martin has reached a point in his life where he’s hardly even surprised. Michael has, on occasion, created a door in the book he’s holding and crawled out from it, which should be impossible but mostly just makes it really hard to keep reading, so an odd spider isn’t the weirdest part of his life at the moment. Still, he should probably just… acknowledge that weirdness. It seems polite. 

And he thinks of his conversation with Annabelle, where he described exactly the sort of spider that’s currently making a meal out of a few much smaller spiders under his kitchen table, and “hmm’s” out loud to himself. He thinks of how she knew Michael, from the marks on the backs of his hands. He thinks of her, sewing, tangling the thread easily between long, graceful fingers, her eyes hidden behind her hair. 

Martin decides he needs to pay a visit.

The day is warm, like spring’s finally decided to stay for good, and he’s genuinely able to take his sweater off for an undershirt for the first time in awhile. It makes him feel a little bit underdressed, inside of Annabelle’s shop, but, to be fair, she doe sell clothing. 

The building is a low, squat one, set in between the blacksmith’s shop and a large cafe. There’s no name above the door, but the clothing racks snake their way outside, making one unnecessary. The large inside feels small just from how packed it is, intricately embroidered fabrics draped in stacks from corner to corner, knitwear lining the aisles, and thin threads crossing though the air above, holding dangling scarves. 

Now that he knows what to look for, Martin sees it for the burrow that it is. It’s early enough in the morning that there doesn’t seem to be many people out, and he wanders alone through the narrow racks, further and further into the lair, following his gut, or maybe something else’s. 

Annabelle is knitting when he finds her, something emerald and endless, a blanket, maybe, or a long coat, and she doesn’t seem surprised to see him. And he doesn’t doubt that she sees him, visible eyes or not. (He’s starting to figure out how these things work, around the edges). 

“There’s a spider in my lighthouse,” he says, bypassing a greeting.

“Yes. Do you want it to be there?” Her fingers flick, catching loop after loop and tugging them through others, building something piece by piece, and he’s not sure if he even gets a choice when it comes down to it. He decides to appreciate the formality, anyway.

“Sure.” Martin sighs, preparing to ask questions without answers, when Annabelle raises an easy palm to stop him.

“You can come in, you’re welcome here. I’m right in assuming that Michael didn’t explain?” She asks, and he scoffs out a laugh, cautiously choosing an uncomfortable stool over a soft-looking chair. He wants to stay alert, in whatever game they’re playing, when it’s so warm and everything around him is soft and giving. Martin knows his fear probably shows, but that’s okay, fear is healthy. Safer to look that than fearless.

“I don’t think explaining is something they know how to do, to be honest. It was… something about them wanting to get in the way of me being alone, which I guess is what the guy who sold me the lighthouse wants, I think. “

“Peter Lukas, yes.”

“And he’s… one of you?” Martin waves a hand in the air, gesturing at Annabelle and any other strange, warped things hiding in the dark corners. The edge of her lips curls up into a small smile.

“He is, though not the same sort. And I am not the same sort as Michael, though I think that’s apparent. Them and Lukas are particularly different, in terms of style, which is why Michael has settled with you. Rather petty, if you ask me, but they make their own choices. And.” She pauses for a moment, seeming to take particular joy in her knitting. “There are some more personal biases somewhere, I’m sure.” She does not elaborate, and the way she says it kills any curiosity he may have had. Martin’s left to his own thoughts for a moment and, unsurprisingly, they turn back to the archives. To Jon.

“Wait, hold on—Elias sent me to Peter because they knew each other, or something. Is he?” He’s on his feet, suddenly, when Annabelle nods. “Then I have to—Jon and Sasha and Tim, they’re not safe. I need to warn them, or, or, do  _ something _ .” He’s halfway to the door when he stops in his own tracks, hazy.

“They’re in no danger. At least not for a good, long time. He’ll just be… observing.” The way she says it makes it sound like something evil or an inside joke, but Martin trusts Annabelle in spite of himself. It feels like she’s being honest with him on purpose, if not actually trusting, and he appreciates that. He gets the sense that she’s just playing around, but at least he’s her piece and not her opponent. Wait, is he okay with that? Should he be okay with that? He’ll have to think about it when his head doesn’t feel stuffed with cotton. 

“Well, I did always think he was sort of a creep.” He fists his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels for a moment, chuckling to himself. “Do they know?” 

“They will. Your archivist is quite clever, I’m sure he’ll figure it out, with a good bit of help. And you can always tell them; I won’t stop you.” 

“He’s not  _ my _ —I mean, we’re not—um. It’s not.” Martin mentally pats himself on the back for stuttering a mostly innocuous statement into something way, way more obvious. Annabelle taps one knitting needle gently against her temple, and he gets the distinct impression that she’s teasing him.

“I’ll just. I’ll see myself out now,” He says, and then calls over his shoulder, “Thank you for the spider!” Because Martin isn’t stupid, but he is glad for the company, sent by yet another strange something or not. 

Penny is waiting for him at home, and, when he stoops down and offers his hand, she scampers onto his palm and up to what’s becoming her customary outlook on his shoulder. As slowly as he can, he rubs across the middle of her back, and, when she presses up into it like a puppy being pet, he melts. 

He’s so busy baby-talking to her for a bit that it takes him awhile to notice Michael, with no real idea of when they got there at all. Their face is bent into an unusual expression, and, by the time Martin places it as some sort of displeasure, they’re lunging at him. They go for Penelope with one clawed hand and she hurries around to his other shoulder, but they just keep going, twisting their torso way farther than it should go around him, chasing after her with a hissing noise. Once Martin realizes what’s happening, he scoops her up between both of his hands so she’s mostly covered, spinning around to try and tilt her away from Michael.

“Stop that! She’s just minding her own business!” But Michael just keeps twisting with him which is really pretty horrible, eyes trained on the spider and teeth bared, at least until Martin elbows them in the face gently. At least as gently as it’s possible to elbow anyone in the face. They don’t seem particularly hurt, hardly moving back at all, but tiny flickers and bubbles flash around their head for a moment from the impact. If Martin didn’t feel so bad, he might laugh at how ridiculous it is, but he’s still in Penny-protecting mode. 

It gets them to back off, though, spine returning to a rough approximation of a normal human’s until they’re standing in front of him again, scowling. They make no move to attack again, but lean down so that their face is level with the tarantula like they’re going to speak to her, which means they’re bent almost in half.

Penny doesn’t seem to feel bad at all, and, as soon as Michael’s in front of her, one of her back legs springs into action as she brushes a tiny puff of hairs off of herself, right towards their face. They lift a hand and block the wave faster than he can really keep track of, except that just means that the hairs get embedded into their palm instead of their eyes. 

Michael hisses at Penny. Penny hisses right back, rearing up onto her back legs, and Michael backs off. Martin’s not particularly fond of whatever field research he’s caught in the middle of. 

“Michael! Wha-why did you do that? And, also, just for the record,  _ don’t _ do that!” He grumbles, still clutching Penny close to his chest, and Michael straightens back up.

“Humans are scared of spiders. I assumed this fear to be justified, one way or another,” they explain, as though they were really being very helpful, and Martin struggles to stay mad. 

“Not this human. Look, she’s here and I named her and she is  _ staying _ , so you’re going to have to deal with it.” Michael sighs, or tries to, but it kind of just sounds like a tea kettle that’s boiled too long. 

“I suppose the protection of two entities is better than one, anyway. I’ll accept this stalemate.”

“Only because you lost,” Martin laughs, returning Penny to her station, surprised at the triumph he feels when Michael gives a thin-sounding chuckle. 

“Yes. Speaking of which…” They raise their hand to inspect where the skin has started to turn reddish and blotchy where the tiny brown hairs are embedded, and then shake it violently, like that’s going to help. Martin winces. 

“No, no, here, I have some tweezers, come on.” He drags Michael into his kitchen and onto a stool, then digs through his small first aid kit for a pair of tweezers, some cloth, and a roll of gauze. Martin could not be a doctor and would also really hate to be a doctor, but he does like to be prepared. And his mom would fall, every once in awhile, always too stubborn for bedrest, and even thought he had the supplies she wouldn’t ever, ever let him help her, would slap his hands away— 

He shakes his head and turns back to where Michael is picking at the tiny hairs, not seeming particularly hurt. 

“You know, these will be no more with a little time. They aren’t meant to last in me, so they won’t,” they explain, but Martin shakes his head. He doesn’t particularly care what they’re meant for, watching Michael’s hand… deal with them will bother him, if no one else. Even if it’s just this, he wants to be able to help.

“Just. I’ve got it. Just let me?” Michael just watches him for a moment, and he wishes he didn’t sound so earnest, but that’s the way he’s made. They offer their hand.

It’s sort of sharp, not just where the tips are shaped into jagged claws, but all across it and even the palm, and it takes Martin a bit to find a position where he’s not getting a little bit stabbed. When he does, it’s not particularly hard to pull the hairs free, especially when it doesn’t seem to hurt Michael in the slightest. Then he wipes down the area with a clean, damp washcloth and wraps it in the bandages. Now that he’s done, it sort of seems like overkill for a few little hairs, but he feels better, at least. Michael flexes their hand underneath the gauze, rumbling, figuring it out, and he thinks they do, too. 

“Thank you, Martin.” It sounds like they’re practicing saying people things, but hey, who’s he to judge? 

“You’re welcome. But seriously, leave Penny alone, I don’t want to use up all of my gauze because you’re feuding with a tarantula.” 

“It is not a feud if your opponent is entirely pointless.” Michael waves their bandaged hand and Martin fails at trying not to laugh, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

“Sure, whatever you say.” He lifts the spider from his shoulder and raises her to eye-level.

“And you, Miss Penny, should keep your hair to yourself. Really, M’am, I understand the circumstances, but you shouldn’t sink to their level. It’s undignified.” 

That evening, he writes to his mother. He hasn’t gotten a reply and knows he never will. But he can’t just—it wouldn’t feel right, to leave her completely in the dark, with no more connection to him than the paychecks he sends for her nurses. He doesn’t even think about it, really; Martin’s been writing letters without answers since he first left home, this is nothing new. It’s just habit.

_ Dear Mom, _

_ The lighthouse job is going well. I really feel like I’ve gotten used to doing the work I mentioned in my last letter, and I’m even getting used to staying up to keep the light on. You always said I should sleep in later and not bother you making noise in the mornings, so I guess I’ve finally managed that. And the town is really nice! I’ve been reading a new book…  _

Martin goes on like that, stilted and impersonal no matter how hard he tries, answering questions that she will never ask him, giving answers she would hate to hear. She’d hate to hear them no matter what. Hate to hear anything from him. Sickness worming its way through his chest, familiar enough to be ignored, he signs  _ Love, Martin _ , folds up the letter, and seals the envelope with a practiced finality. He doesn’t bother feeling much at all for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing something that's like, only romance without a stronger, separate plot, so hopefully it's still fun! Also I know it's not going to happen in canon but I think Martin and Annabelle should be gay/lesbian solidarity lol. Comments are super appreciated! :^D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I haven't clarified this VERY important detail before, so Sasha is very much alive and herself! I wanted to get a certainty of the supernatural but still have the season 1 dynamics, so the worm attack did happen, it was just significantly less extreme and people were only a little bit hurt. In general this AU is less intense because it is catered entirely to me and I want things to be happy. That's not to say there won't be angst! Just that it'll be smaller and more Martin-focused :^)

Filling the empty time of the lighthouse shifts from being another one of his tasks to just a part of existing, the more he practices, and Martin practices a  _ lot _ . It’s not that there isn’t plenty of hard work, it’s just that they’ll always be plenty of time to do it, as long as he works consistently. It’s… actually really nice, to decide what to do with his own days, or to be able to do nothing at all. 

He’s building card houses with Michael when the storm starts rolling in. His is decent, considering, but theirs is something else entirely. Martin made them move it to the floor so there would be enough room for his own meager project, and he’s sure that he didn’t buy quite this many cards. And that the cards were all just the normal kings and queens of a standard deck, with un-spiraled eyes and bodies that ended instead of tangling together in an endless mass. Michael’s got a maze going, sprawling all across the living room floor, tangling the legs of his furniture and overlapping in a way that makes his head hurt, full of long hallways and tucked-away rooms.

They move quickly but thoughtfully, stabbing their fingers through the cards but leaving them completely unharmed when placing them at the next corner or over others as a roof, building and building. They’ll flatten a whole section every once in awhile at what looks like random just to build it again in a different shape.

Eventually, Martin gives up on his own, now-crumpled house and just watches the flurry of their hands. The heavy, building clouds almost muffle the world outside, narrowing it all down to the crackle of the fire and the clicking, humming sounds they make. It’s peaceful, at least until the lightning strikes, the rain following just after in a torrent. Michael shoots to their feet, and the maze crumples in one swift movement. They don’t seem bothered by the destruction of the last two hours’ work, crouched with their hands splayed, head tilted to the side, and face split into a grin. Thunder rolls. Martin blinks.

The light has been lit and he’s cranked up the mechanism to keep the lens moving once so he doesn’t really  _ need _ to worry about it, but it’s by far the worst storm he’s seen on the island. It’s not too bad just yet, but the rain pounds heavy against the stone of his cottage already, the wind adding to the strange song, and he can feel that it’s going to get worse.

Martin gathers up his raincoat, ties up his boots as tight as they’ll go, and grabs his lantern. He gives Penny a kiss before putting her back into her little den, adding a few more logs to the fireplace in the hopes that it’ll still have some hint of warmth by the time he gets back, whenever that is. He heads out into the storm.

Michael didn’t walk out of the door behind him, but they don’t seem to notice, at his side anyway as he trudges towards the looming shape of the lighthouse. The rain doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with them, either. It keeps getting closer and closer but just falling right around them in a messy haze, and, judging by their usual, dizzy-patterned shirt, the cold doesn’t do much, either. He resists the urge to find a way to use them as an umbrella. 

It’s hard to see clearly through the torrent of water and darkness, the sort the presses in, heavy all around. It’s almost hard to lift his head against it, the rain knocking against his raincoat and boots squelching in the growing mud. When he gets a glance at their face, Michael’s eyes are wild and alight, hands twitching rapidly at their sides. 

When they reach the top of the tower, the light is still lit, shining out from the shifting pattern of the lens, and he lets out a sigh of relief, settling down against the outside wall. To be so high up, with nothing but glass between the sky full of rain and lightning and the roar of thunder on all sides, makes it hard to relax. Part of him is afraid; it doesn’t matter if he knows the lighthouse has seen worse storms than this, the animal of his mind still wants to lay flat on the floor until the wind has calmed down so he isn’t knocked loose. But he’s enthralled, too, the energy of the storm filling him as he joins the moment. It’s a powerful thing to be a part of, the fear mixing with the excitement. 

When he manages to look up, Michael is stood at the edge of the tiny room, hands spread wide over the glass on either side of their head, staring out. Martin has to shield his eyes when the light rolls into his face, but he watches anyway. Most of the time, they’re only loosely imitating a person, a strangeness that’s become familiar, but they’re always solid, always there. But now the edges of their body don’t seem quite as firm as usual, somehow. There’s a flicker all around them, in time with the lightning, and, when he squints against the light, he thinks he sees something much larger wrapped around them, tiny flashes of color and black-white-black-white patches that make his eyes hurt, a shape he can’t quite pin down, shifting and blinking and writhing, a nowhere-everywhere. He’s not sure if they’re laughing, or if it’s the storm, or his own imagination.

“Is… is this you?” He asks when the nausea has faded, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose he hadn’t noticed before. 

“It is not me, but I am almost it,” Michael offers, and, for the first time in awhile, their voice hurts his ears, sharp and loud. 

“So, it’s like squares and rectangles?” Martin is just doing his best to put the impossible to understand into his own terms, and Michael shrugs. After a long moment of rain, they turn back towards him, still fritzing, apparently deciding to try a little harder.

“I suppose. I am a… larger thing within myself, and this is part of the larger. I am this body, and I am the doors, and I am what is behind them. But the storm is not me, even if I’m part of it.” Martin thinks for a moment, then nods. It’s kind of weird, to think of Michael as many things at the same time when he just sees just the figure in front of him as them, but that’s not quite right. Knowing logically that the doors are as much Michael as this body is much easier than actually processing it. 

They spend the rest of the night at the top of the lighthouse, the squall outside raging itself out all around while the one inside inside the tower with him laughs and laughs. Martin leaves, once, to wind up the mechanism for the fresnel lens, just to find it cranking right along by itself, but he’s not going to complain. Instead, he settles back into his corner of the lantern room with a mug of tea, ready to wait out the storm. He doesn’t sleep; between the energy that seems to be pouring in from all around him and the brightness of the light, he hardly even feels real, much less tired. Through the haze, he realizes he’s having fun, or an imitation of it. He doesn’t feel sick anymore and seeing a storm like this from so high up is really something else. He’s just spending time with Michael, as they are, basking in the light. 

Of course, Martin sleeps late into the next day, only waking up once he feels entirely like a person again. This takes awhile. He doesn’t remember the storm ever ending or getting back down to his cottage, but he’s there all the same, the skies clear once more.

When he does get up, there’s a letter waiting for him. It’s in one of the Institute’s fancy envelopes: a dark green, soft to the touch and marked with an elegant golden stamp that he’s always thought was over kill. He rips through it, only careful with the letter inside, finding familiar handwriting. Sasha’s is mostly plain and practical but curls just a little at the edges, while Tim writes in bold, blocky text and uses too many exclamation marks, and he smiles just at the sight. Martin makes himself wait to read it until he’s settled in his armchair by the fire with his oatmeal (adding brown sugar and plenty of cinnamon makes it a meal and not just gruel) and a cup of chai tea, so he can make the most of it. Sasha’s half is first.

_ Dear Martin,  _

_ Thanks for writing us! We were starting to worry you wouldn’t, and we didn’t actually get your new address, so we couldn’t write on our own. Elias says he doesn’t have it, either, but I think he’s just saying that so we don’t “goof off” or “waste company time". You know how he is. _

_ That sounds like quite the change in jobs! I do like the idea of living in a lighthouse, but you make it sound a little too cold for me. I have to wear at least a jacket in the archives, and we’re completely indoors. Hopefully you’re keeping busy. You mentioned that there’s a library in town, and I’ll attach a list of some titles I think you’d like, and I’ll get Jon’s opinion, too.  _

_ It sounds like you’ve got it figured out pretty well, considering. I’d never guess that you’d never been to a lighthouse before, but I also haven’t, so I may not be an expert. We should come and visit sometime! The town nearby sounds wonderful, I’m sure it’s a good change of pace to be somewhere less crowded, and the people sound nice. A little odd, but that’s to be expected anywhere. I personally think that more remote areas are just going to have a few more oddballs, but that’s part of their charm. _

_ There’s definitely, 100% something wrong with your lighthouse, though. I’ve worked here long enough to know that. I know you tend to worry about this kind of stuff (which is understandable with the worm business), but it definitely sounds serious. Jon’s got me pretty busy right now, but when I get the chance, I’ll try and see if we have any statements that sound similar here. Keep us updated, and stay safe.  _

_ Things have been going well around here, which, as you know, means they’re incredibly boring. We get a lot of faery tales and people who got spooked walking by themselves at night. And drunkards, lots of those. We’ve been busy, though, without you. And we just miss you in general, of course. I understand why you left, we really don’t get paid enough for this job, but it is strange to see your empty desk. I think even Jon misses you, he’s a little crabbier than he usually is, and he takes a lot fewer breaks without you reminding him. _

Then, crunched in between the margins of two lines, with something scratched out like she’d hesitated, Sasha wrote:  _ Do you think that some distance has helped with your feelings there? _

_ Anyways, Tim’s been driving me crazy. Also, hi Tim, I know you’re going to be reading this. But he’s decided it’s a good idea to see how many times he can change the sign on Jon’s door before he notices. I know we’ll both get yelled at if he’s caught, but it’s literally been “Fun Police” for two weeks now, and that’s the fourth sign so far. And they’re getting progressively bigger and more colorful too, but Jon? He. Has. Not. Noticed.  _

_ I’m doing alright, myself. Nothing too exciting, really, but I finally managed to track down where that last statement happened, since it was given so poorly. That’s the one where the boy dreamt his sister was buried alive when they were kids and kept waking up covered in dirt and with a shovel, remember? Well, turns out that both siblings died in a landslide a few months ago in the middle of the Andune mountain range while traveling for his wedding, even though it was only the area around them effected and there hadn’t been any rain heavy enough for that in a good while. Jon still says that it’s just a coincidence, but you know how he is. So even if it’s a little morbid, I’m glad I finally managed to drag up the records of that. Other than that, it’s really just the same-old, same-old.  _

_ What’s this about a new roommate? As far as I knew, you were just going to be stuck by yourself for awhile, but I hope they’re at least good company?  _

_ Let us know if there’s a good time for us to come visit, and write back soon! _

_ —Sasha _

Tim’s letter follows on the next page, and the two of them have doodled all over the bottom of this one, including a very bad drawing of Jon that still perfectly captures all his disdain, and Martin laughs out loud to himself, nearly choking on his tea. 

_ Dear Martin! _

_ We thought you’d forgotten all about us back here in the Archives. I was worried all the glamour of living on a rock would go to your head. But seriously, stay in touch!  _

_ Sasha’s right about there being more work around here, I think Elias is too cheap to hire another assistant for the Archives now that you’re gone. He just bought another pair of stupid, fancy glasses instead, so you can imagine the stress we’re under as employees. We had a lady come in the other day with her dog, convinced it was a monster, so we got to keep it over night to check!!! Jon barely even freaked out because it was supposedly actual research, unlike that time you found a puppy and didn’t want to leave it in the rain. Turned out it was very much a totally normal dog, and also the best graveyard shift I’ve ever worked. Lady wouldn’t take it back, though, so we gave it to a farmer in the area who was looking for a sheepdog. Seriously, more people should bring us their dogs. _

_ And what’s this about a roommate? ;^] Seriously, you can’t just say that and give no context, Martin! Did you really move into a lighthouse and then immediately snag a hot dude to come live with you in relative isolation? If so, kudos to you, honestly. If it’s just an old lady who’s scamming you because you can’t say no, then please, don’t tell me. I’d much rather just pretend that you’re getting laid, because you’re my friend and I care about you.  _

_ Have any suggestions for my next sign? _

_ —Tim S.  _

Martin rolls his eyes, even if he can’t keep the smile off of his face. Even after getting the courage to write one in the first place, he’d still kind of been worried about not getting a letter back, deep down. It’s just what he’s used to. But of course they would write back, they’re his friends.

Even as he misses them desperately, the ache in his chest dull but painful, he’s glad for the letter. He can almost hear their voices through it, imagine Sasha folded neatly over her desk, pushing her hair out of her face in order to write, and Tim lounging back in his chair, smiling as he reads Sasha’s piece before writing his own. He misses them dearly, but loves them even more. 

Martin writes his own letter back, not worrying that not much has happened. Instead, he walks Sasha through his day in more detail, doing his best to do a little drawing of the lighthouse, even if it ends up horribly lopsided. Then he pauses, sighs to himself, and answers her little aside about Jon as much as he can without really knowing the answer. 

_ I mean. I don’t  _ not  _ have feelings for him anymore? But it’s not like I have to see him all the time, either, so I think that helps, but I still think about him. I think that if I had to see him again now I’d be back to square one, if I’m being honest. But that wasn’t going anywhere, so. I’m glad that I’m out here. _

Even if Jon had been nicer to him lately, in the wake of… well, the worm-attack, even if it sounds stupid to call it that in his head, that doesn’t mean he had any real chance. He’d actually let Martin bring him tea half the time and hadn’t been as harsh on his work, and there was the softer, more genuine side of him he’d seen when they were hiding out together, and he’d even asked if Martin was a ghost, which was so cute and goofy and unexpected—he cut off that line of thinking, groaning at himself. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t over him. But he still wasn’t sure if Jon even liked guys, and he was pretty sure that, even if he did, he wouldn’t like _him_. It was better to stay out here where his pining was less acute, at least.

Shaking his head, hard, he focuses back on the letter instead of his own dumb daydreaming. He congratulates both of them on their work, whether that’s actually doing their jobs or just bothering Jon, asks after their families and projects, and then pauses once more. Even if his schedule is still the same, there has been one significant change since his last letter. 

How the hell does he explain Michael? None of them are new to the supernatural, but knowing that there are things that lurk in the dark or even being briefly threatened by them and letting one into your house are two very different things. He has, in fact, worked very, very hard not to let one into his house before. 

On the other hand, there’s no way Sasha will let him off the hook without offering some sort of explanation for the haunting he’d described in his last letter, even if that answer is just that now he makes card houses and watches storms with what’s haunting him. Not that Michael’s a ghost or particularly bothering him anymore, but there’s no better word he can find for them. 

_ Yeah, I definitely have a roommate now. First of all, Tim, why are those my only two options??? They’re both wrong, also, so there.  _

Well. The first one isn’t really entirely wrong. He wasn’t trying to get anyone to live with him sure, but, if he thinks about it, Michael’s not _un_ attractive or anything. But still.

_ So it turned out I was kind of being haunted, not just going crazy. Um, this is kind of hard to explain, but this creature just decided to live in the lighthouse with me so that I don’t get lonely to piss off the guy who worked here before me. Their name is Michael and I think we’re getting along ok, actually. Kind of really weird, but you get used to them after awhile. We might be friends??? I’m never good at figuring that out, but they’re nice to be around, I think.  _

_ And there’s a lady who I think is probably actually a bunch of spiders down in town who is kind of the same thing but a different type. Also so is Elias, I guess? But I don’t think he’s going to actually do anything, according to spider lady, so you should be fine. I’m not in any danger or anything, and I’m not lonely, so.  _

_ And I have a tarantula! So two roommates, technically. Her name is Penelope and she does what she wants.  _

_ I love you guys, make sure to stay safe! _

_ —Martin  _

As he tries to doodle Penny, Martin considers just how weird his life has gotten. It hasn’t exactly been normal since he started working at the Institute, of course, but somehow it was leaving it that put him in direct contact with the monsters that would at least be honest with him, in comparison to one who just sat in an office and occasionally told all the staff to do paperwork better and the one who’d locked him in his apartment. 

It sounded much weirder on paper than it actually felt, to have Michael around. They just showed up in his house and read his poetry and listened to him and spoke in half-hearted riddles, and he just… got used to it. He hadn’t even realized it until he’d written it down, but he  _ was _ enjoying having them around. At least they were polite.

He gets some wax and one of his own envelopes, a light, faded sort of yellow that reminds him of distant flowers, and sits down near the fire. Carefully, Martin uses a knife to scrape some off of the larger stick of wax, flaking it off into a serving spoon, and holds it out over the fire. Warmth presses up against his face and the edges of his hand as it melts, pooling slowly. Once he’s sure it’s warm enough, he pours it over the flap of the envelope as carefully as he can manage, pressing the wax down to seal it. It’s a little messy, but it should hold, and it’s not like he has the Institute’s fancy seals to work with anymore. 

The air is actually warm when he walks out towards the little boat, and he unwinds his scarf to stuff into his pocket, letting the sunlight soak his face, taking in a deep breath. The letter is tucked safely in his pocket. 

He paddles his way out towards the town, waving at the blacksmith and the cobbler when he arrives at the shore, tying up the boat and climbing out onto the dock. The post office is a warm and clean little building, with big windows and shelves upon shelves full of letters. He pauses for a bit to enjoy the sunlight filtering in and the familiar smell of paper, before handing off the letter and paying the receptionist.

There’s not really anything he needs just yet, but he’s done all his daylight work and might as well enjoy the afternoon, so Martin wanders deeper into town instead of back towards the docks. There’s a lot of people out and about, some he knows and some strangers: parents swinging small children between them, couples holding hands, and individuals just taking in the scenery. 

Martin finds himself in a small, cozy little cafe, sat out in the back garden in a little metal chair with a lemonade. Sitting there, with one of his favorite poetry collections, surrounded by the gentle hum of conversation and laughter and the soft breeze, he breathes out. The afternoon is a good one. 

It’s nice enough that, when he looks up after an hour or two and finds Annabelle Cane seated across from him, he’s only a tiny bit on edge. She nods at him in greeting, and he waves, putting in his bookmark. 

“I wanted to come here,” he notes, only mostly sure of it.

“Yes, you did. I just followed you,” she explains, and that’s… that’s probably better? Only a little weird. “Are you enjoying your lighthouse, Martin?” Annabelle doesn’t have any sewing or knitting on her, and her hands pick at the little table cloth absentmindedly, winding and unwinding tiny knots in the fringe. 

“Um. It’s good. You know, I keep the light on and stuff. Michael’s there.” He shrugs, feeling like he very much doesn’t know how to talk to her and also that he’s doing a bad job of trying. She doesn’t seem to mind, though it’s hard to read her expression past the bangs. “Do you—do you want something?” She smiles.

“No. Just to ‘hang out’, I suppose.” It sounds like she’s making fun of herself, almost. “Most are… hesitant to approach me beyond business. It’s this funny little idea of self-preservation, I think.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He means it, but she just tilts her head, like that doesn’t quite make sense to her, and he rushes on. “I mean, for the record, you do kind of scare me, even if I’m not scared of spiders. But I figure, if you wanted to kill me or something, you could’ve already. Or, or if you were planning to do so and just dragging it out, there’s probably not much I could do about that.” He shrugs, sipping his lemonade. 

“Well, you’d be correct. Still, unusual.” She just sits there, and he does the same, clearing his throat a bit. Martin wishes he wasn’t already so used to feeling out of his depth. There’s no pull on the edges of his mind, and even if he’s relaxed he still feels fully himself. It seems rude to just sit in silence. 

“So… uh, how did you learn to sew? Your stuff’s pretty impressive.” Martin doesn’t know the first thing about embroidery, to be honest, but Annabelle humors him, explaining some styles. After awhile, he sort of stops being nervous about walking into a trap (though if that’s a good thing or not, he’s not sure) and starts talking back. Annabelle is a surprisingly good conversationalist, a little serious and philosophical, but fun nonetheless. And it feels like she takes him seriously, especially when he talks about his distaste for worms. 

Way against his better judgement, by the time he has to be heading home, Martin finds himself genuinely enjoying her company. It’s nice to be able to talk about the weirdness of his life without over-explaining, and he has a vague guess she feels the same way. He bids her goodbye sincerely, leaving her sitting at the tiny cafe where she hadn’t eaten anything, draped in a heavy purple dress, looking pleased. And his head is clear. 

Halfway back to the dock, he passes a yellow door set into the side of the bakery. It takes Martin a second to register it, and, by the time he backtracks enough so that he’s facing it, the door is swinging open from the inside. Peering around the edge, he gets a glimpse at what’s inside: a mess of colors and mirrors, and a few hallways twisting off of the main one, enough to keep his eyes wandering and lost in the moment before the door is closed again, and he thinks: that’s all Michael. Huh.

Speaking of which, they’ve extracted themself from around the door, and, when he blinks, it’s gone, with only their new presence next to him to indicate it was ever there at all. 

“Hello, Martin!” They give a wave, and he sees that their hand is entirely normal-sized, which is somehow way more disconcerting than the usual lanky, pointed fingers at this point. He blinks, and they’re entirely normal-shaped, only a few inches over six foot with a mouth small enough for any face and features that don’t shift. He realizes that they are very handsome, and clears his throat, twice.

“Oh, hi, Michael. Didn’t know you could do that.” He gestures to, well, all of them, and they beam. 

“Yes, I thought it would be good to blend in. Where are we headed?” They fall into step beside him easily. 

“I was just going to go home and make dinner, but you just got here, so…” He doesn’t want to disappoint them, even if they weren’t technically invited. But they just clap, which is still much louder than it should be.

“Yes! Let’s go home and make dinner. What shall we be having?” He blinks at their enthusiasm, especially considering that, as far as he can tell, Michael does not eat dinner or any other food.

“I have everything for shepherd’s pie, and that can last for awhile, so.” If Michael is opposed to shepherd’s pie, they don’t complain, instead walking with him all the way down to the dock and even folding themselves into the tiny little boat opposite him, and he has to try not to laugh at the novelty of it. But before he has time to even start paddling, much less worry about the extra weight, the boat is moving, arcing steadily and swiftly through the waves towards the little island. He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it sort of feels like cheating.

He lights the lantern first, then heads back down to the kitchen so he’ll have plenty of time to work. Martin gets all of the ingredients spread out as Michael sits on the edge of the kitchen table, watching him with the usual fascination. Trying not to get self conscious, he focuses on peeling up the potatoes, humming to himself as he does, before putting them into his biggest pot with some water and leaving them to simmer. Then he minces up the beef, cutting away the fat around the edges first, then slicing it into as small of bits as he can manage. 

He turns to grab the vegetables just to find Michael right in front of him, close enough that he can feel the tiny bursts of static from their skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck. They’re back to their regular self, so he really, really has to tilt his head back to see their face, and he is suddenly, viciously struck by the bright, shifting colors of their eyes, the sharpness of their jaw, and he has the sudden and unfortunate realization that they are  _ very _ handsome, even when not looking human at all. 

When Martin gets his head back on his shoulders, he steps to the left so he’s not backed up against the counter anymore, resisting the urge physically shake his head so he can process what Michael’s saying.

“I would like to help,” they repeat, and he realizes that they’re holding an onion that looks comically tiny in their hand, stifling a laugh.

“Oh, thanks! Uhh, I think what we need to do now is get these vegetables cut, so—wait, no, with a  _ knife _ !” He squeaks, and Michael pauses from where they’d been really, really close to decimating the onion with the sharp edges of their fingers. “Okay, first of all, I put out the cutting boards for a reason. And I’m the one who’s actually eating this, so we’re going to cut things with actual knives, oh my god.” 

He kind of just shoves Michael over to the cutting board, but they go easily enough, amused. Martin pushes a knife into their hands, and, without really bothering to think about it, puts his hand over theirs on the knife so he can show them how. He guides their hand to chop the onion a few times, and it’s generally kind of a clumsy process and he’s getting a tiny bit stabbed, but he doesn’t particularly mind.

And then Martin’s brain catches up with the rest of him, because he’s holding someone’s hand, even if it’s just for vegetable-chopping purposes. It just feels more intimate when he looks up, ready to apologize, and finds Michael gazing at him instead of the knife. They don’t look away, even when he pulls his hand back and stutters out something that might be close to words.

“I do know how to cut vegetables, you know.” 

“Uh, sorry—” But they just laugh and shake their head, waving off his apology. 

“I… appreciate your help, all the same. And your potatoes are boiling over.” They are, in fact, boiling over, and Martin gets the excuse of fussing over them to avoid anything else awkward happening. Even using a real knife, Michael makes quick work of the vegetables, passing them to Martin, who sautes them in a pan for a bit after mashing the potatoes. Before long, the entire cottage smells like cooking, the warmth of the oven bleeding out into the rest of it, making a sort of brightness in the air. He adds the meat and a few spices to his big pan with the Worcestershire sauce, then pours the mixture into a casserole dish, tops it with the potatoes, adds a layer of cheddar over those, and puts it into the oven. 

Once it’s in, Martin collapses down against the counter, stretching his arms over his head with a sigh. Even if it’s still pretty simple, it’s the most work he’s put into making himself anything in… a long time, even before he moved to the lightstation. Actually, Martin’s not sure the last time he’s actually, really cooked something for himself besides whatever’s easiest, even when he was back at the institute, and a bubble of pride fills his chest.

Michael slides down next to him, folding themselves up neatly, and returns his smile. 

“I think you’ve done a very good job. It’s a strange thing, creating something larger out of so many small pieces.” 

“Oh, it’s probably not very good, I don’t cook often.” Michael does not seem willing to budge. “Thank you, Michael. And thanks for helping, too.” 

“You’re very welcome. It smells good, I think.” 

“It’s much better if you can actually eat it. Um,  _ can _ you eat it?” 

“I do not believe I’m made for this fare. It does not work.” Martin pulls what he hopes comes across as a sympathetic face, patting them on an unsteady shoulder.

“So… you’ve tried eating human food, then?” The idea of them sitting down with a knife and a fork is enough to make him stifle a laugh, but they go strangely quiet for a long moment. 

“I… yes. Some time ago.” Michael’s smile drops, their face twisting in a way he doesn’t recognize, and Martin hurries to change the subject.

“So uh, have you ever actually been into town? Except for today, I mean.” They shake their head, hair shifting with them. “Oh, it’s really nice! I mean, maybe not if you’re big on having everything all fancy, but, um, I like it. Hey, next time I go, I can show you around, if you want? I’ve only been there a few times, but y’know.” Somehow, his rambling seems to get Michael to perk back up.

“I would like that very much, if you would. I don’t often, hm, ‘stop to smell the flowers’?” They do the most ridiculous air-quotes he’s ever seen in his life, and Martin giggles, nodding his head. 

“That was a good try, at least. Oh, shit, I forgot the oven!” He scrambles over to pull out the shepherd’s pie, relieved to find that it looks pretty much unharmed, the cheese only a little bit crisped at the edges. And, more importantly, it is warm and delicious and filling. Michael sits across from him at the little kitchen table as he eats and they stay there into the evening, with the little cottage warm and comfortable around them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't care what canon says, I think Martin and Annabelle are friends:^D. 
> 
> Also not to be cheesy but like. Working on this fic has genuinely been the highlight of my quarantine, when I was feeling especially isolated or overwhelmed I could work on it to feel better or even just take a moment to think about it and go "oh yeah there's still love in the world". It's really, really has been a source of joy for me, so I'm really so glad that people are enjoying it so far!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: discussions of Martin's mom, so abuse but not discussed in detail.  
> Also!! This is a reminder that I had this entire fic outlined and mostly drafted BEFORE season five began and I'm not really letting newer stuff change what I've already got.

The next few weeks are mostly the usual sort of uneventful, but it’s all pleasant. In his free time he visits Annabelle again, fills a whole notebook with poetry, and adds some plants to Penny’s corner, which he’s completely given up on being anything but a tarantula wonderland. He really does enjoy Michael’s company when they pop in, and they take to helping him out more with keeping up the lightstation. They work together to paint over the daymark on the outside of the lighthouse, organize the small, cramped toolshed on the north side of the island, and patch up the leak in his cottage roof that drips during storms. Even when it’s not a two person(?) job, just having the company helps a lot. Michael walks with him around the island and sits next to him in the evening and keeps the lantern lit with him at night. And, one morning, they leave a mango on his kitchen table.

Martin’s never seen a mango in real life, not when it’s too cold to grow them here and the shipped-in ones are too expensive to be in the sorts of markets he visits, and he never thought he’d get the chance. But there one is, sat on the table like it has every right to be there, and Martin just stands there in his pajamas and stares at it. There’s no note or explanation or any flair at all, but the message is clear: it is a gift. 

The fruit is soft and smooth when he picks it up, and, even with no prior mango experience, he can tell that it’s perfectly ripe. Martin cuts off the top with a knife, pausing to put a towel underneath it because it’s clearly going to be messy, before running the knife down the outside to peel away the rest of the skin. Then he cuts chunks away from the seed in the middle, which is way bigger than he expected, and dices those into little cubes, trying and failing to keep his hands from getting gross and sticky, but it’s more than worth it. He’s surprised how sweet it is, sort of tangy, soft against his tongue. Martin decides that mangoes are, in fact, a ridiculously delicious fruit as he stands in his kitchen, barefoot and half-awake and weirdly touched.

It’s a very specific sort of honor, to get something like this for no reason. Not just because mangoes are delicious, but Michael doesn’t even eat, and they brought him a fruit he’s never been able to see. He finishes it slowly. 

Martin sits on his porch in the afternoon, just for the sake of it. Curled up on the little rickety porch swing and staring out across the island, he finds his focus fading. Just when he’s starting to doze off, the wind picks up, blowing through all that empty space, and he smells Raincloud Beach. Not just any beach or any ocean, but _that_ beach, the very air from every day that summer. It’s the smell of the tall, thin grasses and the mix of sand and dirt and the old wood of the little beach house and the thin sunshine and the laughter from the boardwalk, all scrambled up and tucked away inside him. He doesn’t know if it was the little shore’s real name, but it was what he heard the other kids call it, for the storms that blew through nearly every afternoon in the early summer. They had rattled that whole tiny house around him, shaking through the walls and clattering against the windows he’d sat underneath, listening with fear turned into wonder. 

They’d moved to Raincloud Beach for his mother. She’d been sick, always had, but it was a lighter sort of sickness, then. Not that she’d been any happier, but she could do a lot more on her own. Still, the doctor had recommended sea air, so they packed up all two of members of what could’ve been called a family, planted themselves on the shore, and opened all the windows. And that was it. 

Martin couldn’t go to the beach alone. He was maybe twelve years old, more than capable of doing it, but he wasn’t allowed unless his mother went with him. And his mother was sick. She was never once well enough to walk down the little wooden path across the sand and over that huge dune and down the creaking little steps to see all of the big, big ocean. She never said that he couldn’t go with words, but Martin knew that it Was Not Allowed. He would’ve been abandoning her, leaving her behind for something as silly and pointless as swimming, and he knew exactly how she would look at him, eyes narrowed and gleaming with what he pretended wasn’t hatred, because he would have done something wrong. 

He must’ve done something wrong already, a long, long time ago, but he couldn’t make it worse, he had to make things right and—and it wouldn’t be _fair_ , for him to leave the house when she was stuck behind. 

It did not matter how long he sat in the little wooden house. It did not matter how many other children he saw walk towards the beach. It did not matter when his mother was well enough to walk the other direction to town, well enough to yell for hours, well enough to throw him away from her when he tried to help, she was not well enough to go down the little wooden path, and so he wasn’t, either. A whole summer spent footsteps from the ocean, and he’d never once gone swimming in it. 

His mother had decided they should move back inland come fall, and that had been it. 

Martin stands without thinking, breathing fast, but he’s not quite sure if it’s because he might cry or from excitement. Here, on this beach, there’s no real path down to the shore, but he makes one of his own, climbing down the shelves of smooth stones and thin gaps of sand, tugging off his boots and socks and heavy jacket on the way, then his shirt and trousers so they won’t weigh him down, leaving just his underwear. He climbs down to a large, flat rock and lets the waves lap against his feet. 

Even late spring here is a little chilly for him despite the bright, sunny sky, and the water itself is freezing, enough that he wants to pull back and go curl up by the fire. So Martin stands, takes a deep breath, and jumps in. 

There’s a moment that is nothing but cold. The water presses in all around him, freezing, arching up and under and everywhere, soaking right through to his bones as he presses his eyes closed and sinks. For a moment he stays like that, surrounded by the peaceful silence of dark water. Then he’s flailing, legs and arms kicking until he gets the hang of the tide, pushing himself to the surface. The air feels even colder, somehow, with his hair dripping down into his face and the wind chilling his skin. But that cold is easier to handle when his whole body is working to adjust to it, and Martin’s glad he got it over with. He swims back a little and feels the gentle sinking of the sand beneath his feet, shells and rocks grazing him as he stands. The water laps at him in gentle waves like a greeting, and it’s incredible. 

Martin walks and then paddles out further until the water is up to his shoulders and the waves are bigger, until he is rising with them, rocked back and forth, until he is diving through the bigger ones to avoid getting knocked over. The sea is not a coddling thing, and it will not yield if he gets tired or missteps, and it will not ask anything of him at all. He sees how deep he can go, how large the waves have to get before he feels the need to move back, and then continues forward step by step. But it’s a fun challenge, not a scary one, to push himself.

This beach is different than the one he never visited; it doesn’t really smell the same and doesn’t have the large, sandy banks packed with tourists, but it is his. Martin realizes that he’s crying only distantly, unsure if it’s from some kind of mourning or joy or just the cold sting of the wind, and he doesn’t really care, just losing himself in the shifting of the waves. 

He dives down into it again, pushing deep into empty water, and opens his eyes. He watches the dark edges of the water on all sides of him, the shifting patterns of the light pouring through, wrapped up in the wonder of it. Drifting, he stays underwater until the bubble of air trying to push its way out of his chest grows too large, pressing out against his ribs, and he has to surface. 

When he turns back to get his footing in the sandbar, there is a door on the beach, and Martin smiles. It’s not actually set into anything at all, just halfway off of a rock, but Michael steps out of it without trouble, watching with their head tilted just a little too far to the side as Martin treads water. 

“That water is dreadfully cold,” they point out, fingers tapping against the side of their arm, and he laughs. The sound surprises him, joyful and high-pitched and just a little too loud.

“Oh, you have have _no_ idea.” Even though he doesn’t actually feel that cold after being in the water for so long, he’s covered from head to toe in goosebumps. They don’t seem satisfied with his answer.

“Martin. Are you.” They pause for a moment, like they’re trying to think of the words, but all they say is. “Are. You. Alright?” Not strained, necessarily, just enunciating very carefully, as though they’re walking on eggshells, and Martin blinks. Are they worried about him? They shouldn’t be, he doesn’t want to make a hassle, and, again, he doesn’t feel too cold. But then again, _is_ he alright?

Martin runs a quick inventory of himself: he was just crying, to be fair; he was also thinking about his mom, which never feels good (christ, that really isn’t normal, huh); he was swimming further and further into water that was, by all accounts, way too cold for a beach day, but. But the messy, knotted web of emotions inside of him isn’t quite so tight anymore, like he finally pulled the right string and tugged out at least one loop, and, and, and he’s having fun. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I actually feel better now. Cold, but better.”

“Ah. I’m glad.” And then they stand there, like that’s it, so Martin paddles over to their rock.

“Do you wanna get in? You don’t have to, I mean, if you don’t want to—but it might be nice?” Martin stutters, his own hand freezing against the back of his neck, and Michael smiles at him. It’s a bright, _bright_ sort of thing and they slip down into the water next to him, still very fully dressed. Or pretending to be be dressed, maybe, which will give him a headache if he thinks about too hard. 

“I don’t think I’ll be cold, no,” they murmur, and Martin doesn’t quite feel like the words are for him, but Michael takes his offered hand in their own, letting him tug them further into the water. It’s a careful sort of thing, to hold Michael’s hand, when so many pieces are sharp, but he wraps his fingers around their palm and they wrap theirs across his whole hand twice, and it’s weird but nice, too. They wade further into the water together, until Martin’s feet no longer reach the sand below, the solidness of it giving out from one step to the next, but Michael keeps him from drifting too much, steady. 

There, in the ocean, Martin feels a little bit like he’s dying. Like whatever’s made a home in his chest that he pretends is named after a feeling is going to claw its way out, bloody, but he lets it. Lets it build, and just keeps swimming further, closing his eyes until he’s only aware of the rocking of the waves and the roughness of Michael’s hand over his, the dangerous things he is choosing to trust. They don’t speak, just make strange little noises of wonder or amusement, something cat-like or bird-like or monster-like he’s not sure, but definitely Michael-like. 

Once he feels like himself enough, he turns back towards them and finds that most of their torso is still completely dry, sighing. 

“Hey, there’s no point if you’re going to just stay up there. Getting wet is the whole point, not just looming ominously out of the water.”

“Ah, would you like me to hunch over? I can be on your level, if you’d like.” they tease, and Martin gives an exaggerated gasp. He’s on the taller side of medium height, really, but that doesn’t matter when they’re them.

Grumbling, he pushes up out of the water and gets an arm across their shoulders, trying as hard as he can to drag them down into the water, but they do. not. budge. Their laughter is loud and raucous, clearly enjoying it as he struggles and curses.

“Okay, that’s completely unfair!” Martin gives up on physically getting Michael underwater, settling for splashing at them instead. Soon enough, it’s an all-out war of who can get the most water into the other’s face, full of yelling and flailing. Martin makes a valiant effort, even if his opponent basically has paddles for hands, and he does manage to get them pretty soaked. 

He ends up backstroking away desperately, laughing too hard to even beg for mercy as Michael approaches, crouched impossibly in the water, dripping hair covering all of their face except for a sharp-toothed grin. All he manages is to take a deep breath before they’re tackling him, hands still careful around his shoulders even as they crash both of them, full force, down into the water. 

They hang there for a moment, beneath the waves, suspended in a mess of bubbles and just the two of them. Martin opens his eyes against the cold. For a matter of seconds, they are the only two people in the world, living in the space beneath the crest of the ocean and all the sunlight pouring in from above. Michael’s hair is spread out all around them in the water, curling and reaching like the edges of a star, their face split into a grin of victory, suspended just above him in the water. Their eyes are so bright, were they always so bright? Martin forgets how to breathe for a moment, forgets how to do anything but sit in the water and laugh. He breaks through the surface again to breathe too soon, and Michael follows, letting go of him but still giggling slowly, and he takes the chance to splash at them again. 

By the time Martin pulls himself up onto the shore it’s nearly evening, his face hurts from a mix of too much smiling and too much time spent in freezing water, and his limbs ache from swimming for so long. He doesn’t even think of the beach he’s never been to.

Unfortunately, even the catharsis of a really good swim doesn’t keep the physical cold away, not after such a long time. It’s somehow worse after he’s dried off fully, changed into a dry sweater and his warmest pajama pants, and curled up in a blanket near the fire, mostly because none of that stuff really helps. It’s the deep sort of chill that comes only from being too cold too long, the sort that reaches right down into the center of his lungs and refuses to leave. Martin shivers, clutching tighter at his mug of tea, wishing that he could get closer to the fire without getting physically burned. 

“You know, humans aren’t really made for that sort of thing. You’re… quite delicate in your resilience, you creatures,” Michael notes, setting down two more mugs of steaming tea down next to him, and Martin does not have the heart to tell them that tea can only do so much. Or that he just doesn’t want that much tea all at once “You may get sick.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. I really don’t get sick easily, so, y’know, no worries.” And it’s true, his immune system seems pretty decent and hey, even if it’s not, he’s managed to work through every illness he’s been through before, never even fallen behind or anything. “I’ve never been able to actually, y’know, go for a proper swim in the ocean, my mom would never let me, so… it just felt important.” Martin sees the nod of their head to the side and feels himself sink, like he’s said too much. He doesn’t—he’s fine now, and there’s no point bringing things down. 

“Important?”

“I mean, no, I just wanted to. Just felt like a swim.” Michael stares at him, and Martin feels himself prickling. “I said it’s nothing, seriously.” Michael’s expression dips, and they’re tapping their fingers again, eyes narrowed in focus.

“Are you. Alright?” They ask for the second time that day, and this time Martin doesn’t have to double-check, just nodding his head urgently. They ‘hmmm’ at him, looking a little frustrated, but that just makes him dig his heels in further. “You said you were better, which means you were worse before. And, if I’m not mistaken, you were crying earlier. That’s a sign of distress. We can _talk_ about it, if you’d like.” It’s clear they’re trying very hard to get through to him, but it’s not that Martin’s confused, it’s that he doesn’t want to talk ab—there’s nothing to talk about, even. Nothing that he’s going to bother Michael with, he’s not going to sit there and just unload all his stupid feelings and cause problems for them, he’s not,

“I’m fine. I’m really okay, so thanks.” 

“You are lying.”

“I’m not, I mean that—”

“You may _mean_ it, but it’s still a lie.” Michael cuts him off, decisive. He’s not really sure how to argue with that, not when they're the authority on that kind of thing. “I can, drop the subject. I apologize.” And ugh, they’re trying, and he’s got to give them credit for that. 

“No, no it’s fine, I brought it up. I just. You don’t have to worry about anything okay, I’m doing better.” Maybe not fine, but he’s managing. Being out here is good for him, really.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything, Martin. I’m the one who gets to choose, the decision is mine alone. And I’m asking if you’d like to… talk about it.” They’re serious, still gazing at him carefully, and he’s caught off guard. It’s true that Michael’s probably exempt from any awkward social rules or even stuck hanging out with him if he ruins things. And they’re already worried about him, it’s not like he can make himself any more of an inconvenience than he already has. He doesn’t have to tell Michael anything, and they seem to be done pushing him. And, just past the writhing discomfort building in his chest, he kind of wants to. It always helps him, to put his feelings into words some way or another, and there’s not the same sense of obligation with Michael that there would be with someone, anyone, else. He trusts them, when it comes down to it, even if that just makes alarm bells in his head ring, yelling at him not to lean on them, not to become dead weight, not to be a burden. And he’s just aware enough to know that’s not a good thing, either. Martin sits in the silence, watching the dancing of the fire for a long while before speaking.

“I don’t think I hate my mom. I kind of want to, even though I know that’s horrible. But I don’t. I love her, and I feel bad for her, and I want her to get better, and I _can’t_ hate her. It would be easier, if I did. Instead I just wish she didn’t hate me.” He’s talking fast, and he can’t look at them, but he’s saying it and now he cannot possibly stop, years worth of words tumbling out. “I _know_ she does, I’m not stupid and I could only fake it to myself for so long. She doesn’t exactly try to hide it, never has, but I don’t know what I did wrong. That’s the worst part. She doesn't let me visit her and never writes me back and doesn’t bother knowing where I work or who my friends are or if I’m alive or dead. Actually, she probably wishes I was! The way she’d look at me. I can’t—I can’t understand it, I just don’t get it. But even when she says these terrible things or pretends I don’t exist, I don’t _get_ to be angry at her. I just feel like it’s my fault and I think of ways to try harder, other things to apologize for, when she started hating me, if she ever even felt any different.”

Martin finishes with huff of breath, dropping his head down to stare at his hands, feeling halfway to panicked. Oh god, he really just said all of that all at once and now he’s ruined everything. He can’t take it back, though, now that it’s more than just vague feelings of guilt and want and wrongness. Michael is quiet for a long, agonizing moment, before making something like a rattling hiss. He finds one of their fingers on his chin, lifting his head up so he’s looking at them, and blinks, caught completely off guard. 

“Martin. What makes you believe her actions are your fault?” They look actually angry in a way he’s not prepared for, one eye narrowed and mouth warped downwards into a frown. Their hand is warm against his skin. 

“Uh. I mean, she’s my mom. She wouldn’t just hate me for no reason—” He tries, but Michael actually growls, baring their teeth, so he raises his hands defensively and backtracks. 

“I… just always assumed it had to be my fault, I guess. It… doesn’t feel fair to her, to think that it’s for no reason. There’s gotta be something.” It sounds coddling, to say it out loud, like too many chances, but still true.

“Hm. I know _quite_ well that humans are not rational creatures. Still, I find it… ridiculous that you would do anything worthy of such vicious, putrifying hatred. Much less as a child, and to the one supposed to care for you most, the person you trusted with everything. You wouldn’t ever warrant that.” they grind out, and Martin doesn’t believe them.

Not yet, at least. Not after so very long of thinking otherwise. It can't _not_ be his fault, not just yet. 

Still, he pauses, trying to sit with the words, filing them away into the back of his mind to consider later, when he doesn’t feel like he might cry for the second time that day, and nods. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.” 

“You are a deeply kind person, to the point of oddity. You should not be taken advantage of for that, and humans are—can be wicked, manipulative things. You do not have to give yourself away to be loved.” Michael’s voice has taken on a strange sort of quiet, something low and hissing and riddled, and they are still speaking to him, but there’s… something else there, that he can’t quite name but that tugs at Martin. On instinct, he places his hand on the back of Michael’s, where their claw still rests underneath his chin. He wonders. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I should work on that. Sorry abou—thank you, Michael.” Martin sort of feels like the words aren’t nearly enough for how touched he is, but what else does he have? He knows it’s never that easy, but he can at least try to believe them, for the honesty that they are not made for. Not to appease Michael or spite his mother or get Sasha to stop lightly flicking him for saying something self-deprecating, but for himself. Yeah, he can try. Michael nods back at him.

“Also. Your face is really alarmingly cold.” They cup their hand across his cheek, fingers curling up into his hair, looking actually concerned, and Martin flushes. But then Michael’s hand starts emanating warmth, and there is absolutely no way he can resist that when he’s still shivering even with his blanket and tea. Instead, Martin sighs, accepts with dignity that he’s going to turn bright red, and presses further into the warmth of their palm.

When he gathers the strength to look up, their eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, staring somewhere over his shoulder.

“Ok, now are _you_ okay?” He asks.

“Yes. Small alterations to reality are usually simpler, but the Lightless Flame can be... possessive. It requires a touch more effort, that is all.”

“Oh. Huh. Should I be worried about them?” He’s too comfortable to be worried about much of anything at the moment, but considers it distantly. 

“No. I suspect they’ll know to stay far away from here.” Martin shifts so that he can get as much of his face into Michael’s hand as possible, chasing their warmth, and his leg presses up against their significantly bonier one. They make a surprised hum.

“Your entire body is alarmingly cold. That’s. Concerning. May I?” Suddenly, warmth is pouring off of all of Michael instead of just their hand, and their other arm is hovering near his back, hesitant, their expression a good impression of genuine worry. And Martin’s still feeling frozen all the way through, and also just kind of tired and weird emotionally. Well. 

“Sure, alright.”

But even taking a moment to actively decide that he is Not going to make it weird doesn’t fully prepare Martin, who has been living mostly alone on an island for months, for this level of physical contact. Michael basically just curls right around him, scooting up so he’s sandwiched between them and the fire, wrapping their arms snugly around his torso, their legs braced around his on either side with their front pressed up against his back and their head resting snugly on his shoulder. They are very warm and shifting with tiny bits of electricity, and he’s reminded again that they don’t actually need to breathe, from how he should be able to feel their breath against his neck. If Martin thought he was blushing before, then now he is just physically on fire, completely overwhelmed. He tries to sit absolutely, perfectly still, processing. Michael is wrapped all around him, bleeding warmth, and he just stays there, trying to breathe like a normal human being. If they notice that Martin has turned into a gargoyle, they don’t give any indication, just watching the fire, seeming content. 

But, after the longest five minutes of his life of just pure worry and awkwardness, he lets himself relax, melting into the comfort all around him. His head still rests in Michael’s hand, even as he begins to nod off. He can’t help it, drained from fighting against the ocean and himself, and he’s warm and comfortable and secure. It doesn’t matter what Michael is, exactly, just that Martin can collapse into their arms.

He sleeps well through the night, only ever conscious of Michael’s hand running gently through his hair and the warmth blanketing him.

Martin wakes slowly come morning, blinking open to sunlight and finding himself still wrapped in a blanket but moved to the couch, which is way more comfortable. Michael is nowhere to be found, but he’s not cold anymore, and there’s a hot cup of chai tea on the counter for him, with just the right amount of milk. 

And then, through the haze of sleepy contentment, Martin thinks: oh shit, oh _fuck,_ he forgot to light the lantern. The sudden, terrible realization sends an instant shockwave of anxiety through him, and he shoots to his feet, clutching at his own arms. Oh no, that’s literally the only point of his job, and he got careless, and what if some poor ship crashed in the night because of him— 

Martin is trying to turn the doorknob to his front porch with an extremely sweaty hand when he notices the note tacked against the door. It’s written in very large, messy handwriting, the letters fading away into little loops or tangling together but still mostly legible. It says, “I kept the lantern lit. Recuperate. ~Michael”. Below that is a drawing of the lighthouse with the beam shooting out in a rainbow of colors. It’s a really very good drawing, actually, even though the lines have wandered quite a bit. He can’t help his smile and the warmth that floods his chest, carefully untacking the note.

Martin slides down with his back to the door, his legs suddenly a little wobbly as he clutches it tightly to his chest, finding himself suddenly and unexpectedly in possession of something so very precious. There’s something pressing in around his heart and, when he raises a hand to his face (tracing where Michael had held him so carefully with sharp, sharp hands) he finds his skin warm.

“Oh,” Martin says out loud. “ _Oh._ ” 

He’s falling in love with Michael. On a related note, he is _so_ fucked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I actually have a working theme, here's my tma blog: https://dykedistortion.tumblr.com/
> 
> This bit was fun to write for a lot of reasons, but one of my favorites is that Martin's being all touch-starved and a little awkward while Michael, who knows that humans probably shouldn't be too cold but doesn't know just how cold, is kind of actively worried he's dying. Anyways, love is always about fruit when you get down to it. Comments are always super appreciated!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The season one gang is so dear to me, I had to write about them having some quality time :'^)
> 
> Here's the playlist for this fic! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Y3cChSV4D9s5INAZQcUgT?si=iGdLd8W5TF-ui29S2_4OIQ  
> Some of the songs are mostly just for the Vibes while others' lyrics fit super well, and a few are more specific to just the first chapter, but they all fit this fic pretty well imo. Enjoy!

Just because Martin’s aware of his feelings, though, doesn’t mean he’s going to do anything about that but wrap them up and set them aside within himself. Unfortunately, his feelings are fully capable of breaking out and running wild whenever Michael sits too close to him, or laughs, or whenever he sees their door and his heart flutters, knowing that they’ll be there soon. Basically, when they do about anything. And especially when there’s gifts left around his cottage, placed with such delicate care, small trinkets or books or food that he adds to a small pile of precious things, and it’s the worst when Michael gives them in person, gently passing him something beautiful like it’s nothing at all. So. Martin has a rough go of it. 

It’s only partially that he doesn’t think the feelings are reciprocated, because obviously they aren’t. Martin knows he falls in love a little too easily for his own good—take one Jonathan Sims, for example, who only didn’t actively scoff at him for the last few months they worked together but who he pined after from day one—and he’s not exactly easy to love, himself. The thought is familiar enough that he doesn’t even feel bad about it, it’s just something he’s always accepted as true without ever getting a second opinion. Or, any opinion that isn't his mother's. He’s too pushy in how hard he tries to take care of people, apologizes too much, isn’t good at flirting, makes people feel bad for him when he doesn’t deserve it, and a hundred other little things. 

But beyond just himself, he’s not entirely sure if Michael is capable of or interested in romantic love. Maybe, like eating, they just aren’t built for it. And obviously that’s okay, he’s not going to ask them for something they can’t give. He’s not going to ask them at all.

So the weeks pass by and the only person he tells is his falling-apart notebook, scribbling out poems that don’t make sense and shouldn’t. 

That is, until Tim and Sasha come to visit. They’ve been planning the weekend for awhile, after they begged Elias enough for him to give them a Friday off, even if it was just to get them out of his graying hair. Martin cleans as much as he can and buys two extra mattresses to put in the bare guest rooms, clearing off the dust that’s settled there. The cottage is technically built for a family, which had bothered him when there were only empty rooms and bedframes, but now he’s grateful for the extra space. 

Working himself into a minor frenzy on the day they arrive, Martin paces around in a rectangle through one of the extra rooms, Penny scampering around his feet, running through if he has enough food and if everything is neat enough and if his sweater has suddenly developed a hole in the past three minutes. He only stops when Michael makes a door in one of the new beds, climbing up out of and looking around. Martin flops down onto the other bed, tugging his hands down his face.

“Preparing for something?” They ask, and, when he opens one eye through a crack in his fingers, they’re tugging feathers, one by one, out of his nice new pillow. It’s been a few days since he’s seen them. There’s probably enough feathers that it’s fine. 

“Oh, yeah! You know the friends back at the Institute I mentioned? They both managed to get the weekend off to come visit, and I thought they could stay here.” Martin’s probably gushed way too much about Tim and Sasha for them not to know, but, hey, he misses them.

“The Assistants?” It sounds like a name, in their mouth, and he nods. 

“Yeah! Um. I do want you to meet them, but I think… look, I’m sorry, but they can be sort of intense, and even if I told them that you’re not human and stuff, I’m not sure if they would really understand.” Martin doesn’t say it, but he’s kind of worried that they’ll either try and ward Michael off or analyze them like a specimen, even if those fears are only slightly founded. “Do you think you could maybe just avoid coming here for the weekend? I want to… ease them into it?” It’s not like Michael lives there entirely, but Martin still feels bad. He just, he needs to explain in person and make it very clear that Michael is safe and also off-limits for dissections. 

Obviously, when he first mentioned Michael, Sasha and Tim had plenty of urgently-written questions about the fact that he was rooming with something that had, by all accounts, haunted him, and Martin had done his best to explain, but still. Plus, if Michael was around there would be literally a zero percent chance they didn’t pick up on his crush, and he would prefer to talk about that on his own terms,  _ if _ he did at all. 

“Of course. I’ll leave you to your own devices.” They don’t seem bothered at all, and Martin lets out a sigh of relief, even if it still feels a little inconsiderate. But Michael wanders often, in and out the island for days or even a week at a time, so it’s not like they don’t have something else to do, somewhere. He’s wondered what exactly that is, but hasn’t quite found a way to ask.

Martin goes to town before he technically needs to, just to stand out at the far end of it, next to the dirt road that the carriage will come down. Penny’s tucked safely into a bag he’s devoted just to carrying her around when he doesn’t have pockets, since she’d seemed restless. She peeks out occasionally, her tiny little legs resting on the edges of the bag, many eyes trained out on the world around them, and Martin relaxes as he runs a finger down her back. Also, he wants the chance to introduce her before his friends walk into his house and see the pile of dirt he put in the corner of his living room for her. 

When he sees their carriage, all of his nervousness melts away into raw, giddy excitement. Sasha’s climbing out of it before it’s even stopped, kicking up dust around her long skirt as she lands and sprinting towards him at full pelt, yelling his name. Martin barely has time to open his arms before she’s slamming into him, arms wrapped around the back of his neck with enough force that it feels sort of like he’s dying, but he’s laughing anyway. He keeps laughing as he stumbles backwards with the force of impact, and for a moment it seems like they’re going to fall, until Tim’s hand is on his back, keeping them both steady. 

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy. This’ll be a pretty bad visit if we give Martin an instant concussion,” Tim chides, and Martin pulls him into the hug with them. Part of him had worried that they would have warped out of shape, not fit back together right, but that’s clearly not the case. 

They chat easily as he leads them over to the nice little cafe that he’s started thinking of as his own, halfway talking over each other in their rush. Sasha still pushes her glasses further up her nose when she’s thinking of something clever to say and still snorts when she laughs hard enough. Tim still does more finger guns than is entirely necessary when he jokes and still smiles so kindly, even when he’s teasing. They sit around the table and Catch Up, because letters really only do so much.

Eventually, when he notices her poking around, he plops Penny down onto the table, introducing her properly.

“She’s so big! Can I pick her up?” Sasha gasps, setting a hand down in front of her, and the tarantula clambers up easily. “Woah, I didn’t think she’d be quite this fuzzy, or pink. You said she can urticate?”

“Yeah! We, er, learned that one the hard way, but she only does that if she’s pretty mad, and I think she likes you!” Penny seems completely unbothered by Sasha’s careful examination of her, peering at her legs and her little face. 

“Huh.” Tim, who’s pulling a face and leaning in the opposite direction, reaches out with one finger to tap her gingerly on the back. She doesn’t care. “Okay, that’s enough spider-touching for me.” He shivers a little, and they laugh. Sasha lets Penny hang onto her cardigan, and they settle back in.

“So. Had anyone that’s _not_ a spider up there in that lighthouse with you? I’m sure plenty of guys find it all cool and mysterious.” Tim leans in with his head resting on his hands, waggling his eyebrows, and Sasha kicks him half-heartedly under the table. Martin rolls his eyes.

“First of all, I don’t live in the lighthouse, there’s not like, bed or anything.” He ignores Tim’s “ooh, exciting”, taking his turn to gently kick him. “No, stop that. It’s dusty, and there is really not a lot of space. Second of all, I’m busy. And I’m not really down here often enough for that anyway.” Tim sighs, clucking his tongue. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by being kicked, at this point. 

“That’s fair, you’ve got important work to do.” Sasha nods sagely, taking a sip of her coffee, before cracking one eye open, a smile playing on her lips. “Buuut what about Michael?”

Martin groans, sinking down into his chair with his hands over his face, hoping in vain to hide his blush as they hoot and holler and elbow him and just generally make a scene.

“You’re a traitor, Sasha. You betrayed me and now you’re a traitor. Come on.”

“Sorry, Martin, but reading letters where you pretend that you aren’t pining over them is almost making me glad for the statements. Almost. You really aren’t as subtle as you think.” Sasha points her spoon at him, and he can’t particularly argue with that. 

“Today, Michael brought me a little silver locket, and I swooned. I wished that they would hold me in their arms. I dream about kissing them under the moonlight—” Tim puts on a really terrible impression of him, complete with hand motions, until Martin physically gets his hands over his mouth so he’ll stop yelling. The other cafe patrons are staring at them, a little bit.

“Okay, okay, I get the point. I. Yeah.” It’s not like they need any confirmation, clearly. “I just. They’re really nice, even if it’s in a weird way, and also really pretty and tall, like  _ really _ tall.” Tim laughs at him for that, but it’s good natured.

“Wait, you’ve never actually described them. How are we supposed to know if your tastes have improved?” Sasha teases. As a lesbian, she doesn’t really see the appeal of a small archivist with bags under his eyes who reprimands them for saying the word spooky in a supernatural archive. 

“Okay, well, they’re blonde, and their hair is curly. And, uh, their clothes are always kind of ugly, but in a cute way?” Martin ends up doing his best to draw them on a paper menu, which is kind of difficult when he’s laughing so hard and also not great at drawing in the first place. He steals some shredded cheese off of Tim’s salad to use for hair, ending up with a goofy-looking figure that only barely looks like Michael. They all pause to look at it for a moment in contemplative silence, studying his work, before bursting out laughing. 

“Oh, oh my god, Martin, have you ever seen a human person? In your life?” Tim seems to be genuinely struggling to breathe.

“I don’t think that’s how hands work. That’s, that’s really the opposite of how hands work.” 

“Actually, I think those are the only things I got right,” Martin says, matter-of-fact, which just sets them all off again.

They get all their stuff settled into the cottage and eat dinner before he shows them how he lights the lantern and keeps the fresnel lens moving. It really doesn’t seem that exciting to him, but they’re fascinated by it, and then Sasha and Tim insist on staying up with him for the second shift, too. 

They end up spread out across the kitchen, Sasha sitting on the counter with her long legs kicking back and forth while Tim sits up against it, Martin laying halfway across his lap. It’s mostly dark, with the only real light the fire in the other room, and he watches the flicker of the shadows across the ceiling above him. They’re quiet, together.

“Is it weird that I still have feeling for Jon?” He breaks the silence and doesn’t worry about the answer. He loves them both so dearly.

“I don’t think so? I mean, you did have feelings for him for a long time, somehow, so it makes sense that they’re persisting.”

“Yeah. I just wish I would get over it, I guess. Get over him.” 

“Look. I know it sucks, but it’s probably gonna take some time and that’s okay. But also let us know, because Elias wouldn’t let him take off, but the guy seriously needs a break, so it might be good for him to come with next time, but only if you’re on board. Actually, hey that might help! Because, ok, right now I think you’re pining over Idea-Jon, not Actual-Jon, right? Since you haven’t seen him in months.”

“Huh. But it’s not like I didn’t pine after Actual-Jon when I saw him literally every day, either.” Still, Martin thinks that maybe Tim is right; either he’ll still have real, actual feelings for Jon when he sees him in person, or he won’t, but at least he’ll know. It’s not like it’ll hurt. “Yeah, okay, if he can get a break that sounds alright.”

Even as night drags on, his friends insist on staying awake, trailing up after him as Martin climbs the stairs of the lighthouse, circling in tighter and tighter as they get closer to the top, lantern held aloft in front of him. It’s a dark, dark space all around them, and the sound of footsteps beyond his own seems deafening as it echoes between the stone walls. They climb up into the lantern room, and their chatter from behind him goes quit, the silent reverence of a church crammed into the little, rustic room, gathered around the light. He forbids them for touching the lens for fear of smudge marks, but lets them both crank the lever that turns it. 

Sasha insists on stepping out onto the metal balcony that surrounds the light, and the night is cold, the wind blowing harshly across the three of them, enough that he holds himself steady to the rail. They watch in the same hushed silence as the light circles and circles and circles, arching out over the water and catching the tops of distant mountains in its glow. The whole world smells of salt water and candles.

Martin wakes long before Tim and Sasha do and has the sudden, incredible realization that he can make them breakfast. And he does, creeping around the kitchen to make eggs and bacon and hash browns. Not very well, but he makes them. He burns the first batch of eggs kind of badly searching for his nice plates and has to scrape blackened patches off of the toast, but he has the time to do it over and get everything in order. By the time Tim stumbles out of his room, blinking blearily, he’s got all the food laid out and coffee brewed, and he’s pretty sure whatever he mumbles as Martin passes him a plate is a thank you. Sasha follows soon after, freshly showered and dressed, looking significantly more alive. 

They eat together, crammed onto his little porch swing as the morning settles in, knees bumping together and voices overlapping. It’s a gentle, perfect day, with dew in the grass and the smell of the sun leaking in, everything so still.

“So, Martin, what’s on the agenda for today? Gonna light some more houses?” Tim asks, crossing his ankles together over the railing, and Martin laughs, shaking his head.

“Uh, it’s kind of up to you guys. We don’t really have to do anything, since you’re on vacation, but I have everything we need to bake bread—”

“Yes!” Sasha grabs his hand, nearly knocking Martin’s cup of coffee over, then visibly dials herself back. “It’s been forever since I’ve made my own bread, I’m always way too tired after work, and there’s a bakery nearby anyway, so. And something about reading about people eaten by monsters doesn’t really make me feel like baking, you know? I think the energy would just kill the yeast.” 

“Sasha, you’re absolutely right. The only weird energy here is from Martin’s spooky crush, so I think we’ll be ok.”

“Hey, I won't let you take any extra bread home if you keep that up.” Martin tries his hardest to look annoyed, rolling up his sleeves and standing. 

He starts by heating up the water and the sugar, then adding the yeast and waiting for it to bubble while Sasha and Tim get out the rest of the ingredients. There’s no question that they’re going to make as much bread as they can possibly get their hands on, so it’s not long before the kitchen is a complete mess. They have a few different bowls going, kneading the dough together and slowly adding the flower. Sasha approaches her bread with a fervor that makes him glad he’s not bread dough, carefully and exactly measuring things out and pacing around the kitchen like lightning, talking herself through in occasional snippets. Tim ends up with a very quality-looking lump of dough, too, despite apparently doing the exact opposite, only barely bothering to measure out ingredients and pausing to blow a puff of flour into Martin’s face.

Martin does his best, kind of just glad to be spending more time with them. Something about touching something so messy with his bare hands is really weird, almost forbidden, somehow, but he lifts the hefty, sticky mass of dough in both hands anyway, rolling it and adding more flour until it’s round and smooth and there’s little dried bits of dough under his fingernails. He’s kind of constantly worried that he’s done something wrong, made the water too hot for the yeast or added too much flour or over-kneaded it, but those thoughts aren’t enough to stop him from making bread. Instead, he leaves the lump of dough in a bowl on the stove anyway, covering it with a damp towel like he’d read in the recipe and deciding that it will rise. 

Punching down the dough the first time is also weird, but by mid-afternoon they’ve got the first batch of loaves in the oven, three out of six. Even in the living room, the smell of baking bread takes over everything, sweet and safe, and Martin’s mouth waters. None of them have enough energy to clean up, collapsed on the floor and covered with flour, little bits of dough, and then even more flour; there’s 100% something in his hair. Something about the baking has drained him in a way he wasn’t expecting, but it just means he’s worked hard at something. And knowing that he’s going to get warm, fresh bread certainly doesn’t hurt.

“Oh, hey, Martin, I brought you something!” Sasha announces, using her one mostly-clean hand to rifle through her bag without looking. “It’s not actually a gift, so don’t bother feeling bad for not getting me something, because you're letting us stay in your house and absolutely ransack your kitchen.” 

Martin closes his mouth, stopping the protest that was about to come out when he sees that she’s handing him… statements? 

“Okay, so remember awhile ago when I said that I’d look into whatever was messing with you? I mentioned it to Jon and then completely forgot about it, at least until he gave me these.” 

“And so she totally stole them,” Tim adds, letting Sasha elbow him without even turning in her direction. 

“Yeah, how—” she shushes both of them, not bothering to look guilty.

“Look, it’s not like the archives are exactly neat anyways, so nobody will even notice they’re missing. And you can just mail them back when you’re done, or I’ll take them the next time we visit, so we’re just borrowing them, technically. Not stealing,” Sasha explains, and Martin has to laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t actually get a chance to look through them since Tim wouldn’t stop talking on the ride here, and apparently Michael isn’t much of a problem anymore, but I thought I might as well hand them over.”

“Thanks, Sasha! I’ll look them over, but please don’t get in trouble.” Martin takes the statements, flipping through them quickly. There’s three of them, across a number of years, but he wants to save them for when he has time to kill. For some reason, it never really occurred to him that Michael would be in statements, not since he met them properly. He sets them aside and doesn’t look at them again.

“Don’t worry, if Jon notices the statements missing—which he won’t—we’ll just say that the evils worms ate them, he can’t argue with that,” Tim adds. 

They unstick themselves from the floor to take out the finished bread and put in the other loaves, and it looks just about perfect. Brushing melted butter over the top makes it even more perfect, too, and when he cuts into the first loaf, he finds it fluffy and rich. There really isn’t anything like home made bread in the whole world, and it is a resounding success. They sort of just eat bread for dinner, but hey, they worked hard to make it and it’ll go to waste otherwise.

Seeing Tim and Sasha off comes way too early the next afternoon even if they’ve spent as much time together as humanly possible, and he finds himself dragging his feet through town. Having them there has just sort of reminded Martin of how much he’ll miss them when they’re gone. But it also reassures him that they’ll visit him again, with promises to try and stay longer and bring Jon along, which he actually feels okay about. The carriage driver starts loudly coughing after a certain amount of goodbyeing, unfortunately, so Martin settles for one last hug each. 

He stands and watches them go, Sasha turning around to wave like a normal human person while Tim nearly falls out of the window from how hard he’s waving, yelling promises of writing again soon, and he smiles, waving back. 

Martin gets a few days’ rest before Annabelle’s note shows up on his porch. It’s not the first, and he’s decided not to worry about how the letters get there or how his own, left in the same place, disappear overnight. They’ve been writing since his last visit, the letters short but friendly.

Sure enough, Annabelle’s thin, spindly handwriting greets him as he opens it, brushing off the cobwebs gently. Penny takes an interest, clambering up his leg, across his shoulder and then down his arm. He lets her wander over the letter’s surface for a bit, before gently nudging her out of the way so he can actually read it. It’s not much; just the words “There’s something we need to discuss. I’ll see you tomorrow” and that’s all. Huh. Martin shrugs to himself, tucking letter into his pocket next to Penny, and sets about cleaning up.

He wakes up early the next morning, just in case, but she’s not just mysteriously sitting in his kitchen already, at least, so he gets the chance to get bathed and dressed properly. On the downside, that leaves him just puttering around for a few hours, not wanting to start anything when she could arrive at any moment and worrying. By the time he gets a knock on the door, he’s been pretending to read for nearly thirty minutes. Whatever she’s visiting him for, it sounds serious enough to make him anxious about it, even if it is sort of hard to tell her tone through writing. Or at all. 

On the other side of the door, Annabelle stands poised, her clothes neat and mouth twisted into a low frown.

“Hello, Martin,” she says, like she’s not happy to be there at all, and his heart sinks. “I need to talk to you about Michael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, I wonder what that's about! >:^)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: vomiting, discussions of death, canon-typical identity issues.
> 
> I edited this chapter like four separate times and I still feel like there's errors, so I'm sorry if that's the case! (I posted this and then literally immediately saw that I misspelled shoulder, yee haw)

Annabelle explains to him _exactly_ what she is, what Elias is, what Michael is. She explains what they do. What they eat. The fear that they are and which they feed on and which some worship. That they are not simply separate from humans, but prey on them. No more vague answers or half-truths or questions he doesn’t bother to ask. When her hair falls away from her face in the smallest shift, he is not surprised to see eight glossy-black eyes watching him. 

He sits with her across his kitchen table and does not move, the room suddenly just cold, empty space, dead and quiet, until it is hard to breathe. Martin’s known the danger possible in these monsters since Prentiss stalked his home, since Elias and Peter considered his a life a game, but he didn’t _get_ it; that much is obvious. Now, he understands with horrible clarity. He wonders about where exactly Michael goes when they aren’t at the lighthouse, and finds the answer easily. He wonders about the people they’ve taken. Mostly, he just feels sick.

“Why did you tell me this?” Martin asks, some time after she’s finished. He’s been sitting in silence, trying to stay calm, but he can’t tell how long it’s been through the panic. Annabelle’s smile is not a comforting one.

“For amusement. I want to see what you’ll do, I admit. How this all plays out.” For once, her hands are still, but he doesn’t trust that she’s not weaving, slow and careful. “They would have told you eventually, I’m sure. I’m simply impatient. Goodbye, Martin.” Annabelle leaves him in the cold of the morning, and he doesn’t know if he’s glad or not, to be alone. She is one of them, after all, has taken and devoured. At least she was truthful about it.

He finds the statements Sasha left for him, piled away on his bookshelf, unread, and stares at them. His hand hangs in the air, halfway to the shelf. Even through the emptiness filling him it is going to hurt, but he needs to know. They deserve to be read. 

And it does hurt. Aches right in the center of his chest and makes him dizzy, to read the words of people who wandered for too long, taking turns that shouldn’t have been there, further and further away from their families and friends and pets, trying to escape back to their lives. They are pursued by a creature with too-large hands and headache laughter, and it wants to hurt them. It does. 

Or, even outside of the hallways that do not end, they lose their minds, clinging to weak shreds of sleep or a dozen irregularities in what should be a real life, still pursued, still hunted and devoured even as they slip away. Their whole lives become a pointless nightmare. All the statements he reads come from those who lived long enough to find the institute, and he’s sure they're the exception, that most don’t make it that far.

Martin remembers one of the statement givers, he thinks: Helen, a nervous-looking, well-dressed black woman with a brave expression who’d kept one hand on the wall as she headed towards Jon’s office. He’d remembered the way her eyes tracked her surroundings with laser-sharp focus, making sure that it was all still right even as she’d returned his smile, thanked him for the tea he’d brought with the hopes of calming her down. Now, months later, he’s horribly certain that he never saw her leave. He vomits without warning, retching with an empty stomach onto his kitchen floor. 

Martin reads through each one again and again, his hands shaking and head reeling, committing them to memory. Michael did this. The perso—the monster that he has let into his home. And Martin can’t even offer himself the respite of pretending that was all that happened, that he hasn’t genuinely enjoyed Michael’s company, thought of them as a friend, thought of them as more. 

He feels so fucking stupid. Stupid, trusting Martin, not wanting to ruin a good thing, not asking too many questions, not looking too closely. Their laughter is sharp and vicious in his memory, taunting instead of endearing. Michael has devoured people who died afraid or lived lost. 

It’s an irreconcilable, terrible knowing. 

And then, before he even has time to come back to himself, there is a door in the wall that should not be there. He recognizes it not with the usual pang of anticipation, the butterflies in his stomach, but a weary, hazy dread. Michael emerges, as they always do, but stops, the smile dropping off of their face. He doesn’t miss it.

“Martin? Are you alright?” There’s real concern in their voice, or maybe it’s just a very good imitation. They are a liar, after all. 

“No. No, I’m not alright. But I don’t see why you should care.” And Martin finds himself angry, shaking with it all at once, and he doesn’t care as Michael’s face twitches at his tone. “Annabelle told me _everything_ about what you are.”

“Ah. Martin, I—”

“Nope! No. I’m not finished, actually. ‘Oh, I can’t eat human food. It’s not that I consume the fear of completely innocent people, or anything!’ You could’ve told me. You _should’ve_ told me. Is that what you do, when you’re not here? Do you just show up after _this_ and pretend like it doesn’t matter?” Martin waves the statements around, his voice rising, strained.

“It’s my nature.”

“Oh, fuck your nature! These are innocent people, Michael! I don’t even know if you know what that means. You could’ve told me.” Martin runs his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth. And maybe he would’ve reacted just like this, driven them away then and there. And maybe he would’ve given in to the Lonely then, been a victim instead of an accomplice. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He doesn't know much of anything at all, apparently. 

“Yes. I could’ve.” 

“You killed them. You stalk them, or let them wander through you, and then you kill them.”

“Sometimes.” The casual tone, the lack of denial, it’s all just infuriating.

“Do you—does it even matter to you, who they are? Who they matter to?”

“Yes. They have to be afraid.” Michael isn’t moving. They’re just stood there, hands hanging limp at their sides and face blank, in front of the door they’ve tricked so many people into opening. Bile rises in his throat once more. 

“And, what, I wasn’t? You don’t get to treat me like a person and everyone else like food, that’s not _fair_. I’m not special!” He waves his hands, shouting, keeping them from interrupting. “I’m not even being self-deprecating. I’m no more human than anyone else, I’m no different than any of the rest of them, I shouldn’t get special treatment just because you decide! They’re all just people, with lives, that you chose to kill.” 

Michael doesn’t say anything, just waiting, unreadable when he doesn’t bother with deciphering. 

“Couldn’t you just scare them, and then let them go? Do something else? Anything else?” Martin doesn’t want to bargain, but he can’t stop himself. 

“I _tried._ At the start, I would only terrorize them, then leave them to their lives, disturbed but unharmed. It was not a way I could live.” For the first time, Michael’s voice has something like emotion, something tight and desperate, and Martin’s anger turns cold. He can’t—he can’t keep talking about whole lives lost with the thing that took them. It isn’t fair. None of it is.

“You should’ve told me. I could’ve had some dignity, at least.” He busies himself with shuffling the statements, eyes catching on the messy, fearful words. “I think you should go.”

When he looks up, they’ve done him the honor of disappearing. He doesn’t feel any better. 

* * *

The next two weeks shift between a fog of nothing and visceral clarity, apathy and agony. 

Martin finds himself lying on his side on the living room floor. Penny is in front of him, front legs raised high and twitching, and he lets out a breath. Making himself sit up and wake up fully takes a moment and his body aches, but he manages, taking her in the palm of his hand as delicately as he can. With his other, he wipes at his face, feeling like a poorly-reanimated corpse. 

Martin discovers that he is selfish, in the right circumstances. He wishes with an unwavering strength that he could just Not Know. He wishes that he could just go back to the way things were, without ever learning about what Michael is. It doesn’t matter if it’s not exactly how he wants, he wishes that they were still here.

But that just makes him feel guilty, wanting them back. It wouldn’t save the people who’ve been taken or stop more from hurting. He knows that it wouldn’t be fair to anyone, himself included, just because it would hurt less. Besides, Annabelle said that Michael would’ve told him anyway, so even that wish fails. 

The worst part, though? The very worst thing is that his heart does not care. Oh, it cares for the people lost, bleeds for them, for their families. But it does not stop loving Michael. Love does not care. Instead, it just aches, tangling up everything inside of him. Martin feels terrible for it, the guilt of it mixing with his own horror at himself. He can’t just accept it, but he can’t choose not to love, either. He’s tried.

His first impression is that there are two Michaels: the one that he knew and loved, who knew that his mother was cruel but did not push him into believing it, who wants to keep him warm, who teases and presses with great care and ecstatic joy, the one that is close to human even if they’re not quite there; and the Michael from the statements of those who escaped, even if it was only for a moment, the one who plays with their food and creates cruel jokes and only worries about their own survival, the one that is simply a monster. 

Neither Michael is real. Martin understands that, eventually, in his mourning. Michael is not human by virtue of kindness and is not evil by virtue of surviving, even if they might not be good. Humanity is not earned through compassion. They are a monster and a person, the hallways, the body, the door. They have done terrible things to live, which is human. They have been kind, which is the most human of all. 

And he loves them. 

He wanders down to the rocky cliffs at the edge of the island, lets his feet sway in the freezing water up to the ankle, and decides. The sea demands nothing of him, empty and great, but it listens better than anyone. 

Loving them doesn’t mean he has to call them back and have them in his life. He wants to, of course he does, but that’s different. He’s mostly sure, now, that the lonely wouldn’t claim him even without them, at least not the way it worked before, gradual and crushing. He’s writing letters to the friends he loves, and taking care of Penny, and the town knows him, and he recognizes the cold that comes with it. He could manage. And at the very least he wouldn’t be complicit, even as just the idea of never seeing them again makes recoil. But… 

There are things he cannot let happen, that much is certain. Martin might not be able to persuade Peter Lukas or Annabelle or any other thing like them one way or the other, but he thinks Michael will listen (thinking is an awful lot like hope, but the difference doesn’t matter just then). If there’s a chance of him making any change at all, he has to try. He cannot ask Michael to die, can’t even consider it as a possibility, because he is in love with them and because they are a monster. It is their only way, but even the starving can choose. He doesn’t know how, only has vague feelings, but at least they can try. And he does not want to be alone. 

He hopes Michael doesn’t hate him already. 

But when he calls, they do not come. There’s no way to tell if they simply don’t hear or if they’re ignoring him, and the resolution Martin feels gives way to raw panic at the edges. He ignores it, calling out to the almost-empty lighthouse until he has climbed the stairs to the lantern room twice and can’t keep his eyes open anymore. When the next morning gives him nothing, he tries his second plan, opening every door in his cottage again and again in the hopes of getting the wrong one, fighting down the feeling that he’s too late.

When Martin does find a door that’s not supposed to be there, it is not yellow at all but a deep purple, right in the middle of the hallway towards his bedroom. And, through his relief, Martin realizes what exactly he is trying to do. He is going to open the door to what Annabelle called the Distortion and go inside, into a place that is made to eat him. A beast. He knows secondhand what it’s like to wander through endless hallways that do not line up, has felt the slowly growing terror of every turn being a wrong one settle into his bones as he read the statements, the sensation that the walls are pressing in even if they don’t appear to move. He does not know if he’ll come out, and, considering, it seems unlikely. 

Martin sighs, a heavy thing, and reaches towards the handle. Before he manages to get it open, he feels movement on him and finds Penny trying to crawl into his breast pocket, scrabbling with her little paws.

“Hey, Miss, that’s not allowed right now. I don’t think you want to go where I’m headed. Not so sure I want to, either, but… hey! Whoa, calm down!” He’d been trying to reach in and scoop her out to safely deposit her on the floor, but she rears up at him, making a funny little hissing noise, her meaning entirely clear. He remembers the red tinge of Michael’s hand where her hairs had gotten them and winces. Still, he waits a moment, giving her a look and the chance to change her mind. Penny makes herself comfortable instead.

“Guess we’re both too stubborn.” Martin laughs weakly and twists the handle. The inside is what he expects, from the quick glimpses he’s had and what he’s read, all glaring wallpaper and paintings of the glaring wallpaper, or mirrors that show the glaring wallpaper. He has a headache already. He has also started walking through the hallways, without any memory of stepping though the door, but he’d expected that much.

Martin braces himself to lose any sense of time, fully prepared to wander endlessly in a confused daze for however long it takes to find Michael. Or for Michael to find him. Instead, he walks down one hallway, turns one corner, and finds himself in a room. Well. 

There is sort of a woman in it, sitting on a big, bizarrely plush couch that looks about as real as she does, which is to say hardly at all. She wears a striped, formal suit and sits with her legs crossed neatly, and it takes Martin a moment to recognize her under the colors and the warping.

“Helen?” He asks, and she nods, grinning in a way that is both familiar and entirely new. He’s not sure if he likes it very much.

“Martin! I’ve heard all about you! I hope you were able to get here in one piece, it’s always a little iffy on how direct I can get it, but that’s just how it is.” Then she pauses and smiles wider. “Oh, and I recognize you, too! Thank you for the tea, Helen appreciated it. Please, take a seat.” There is a comical chair next to him, and then he is in it. It feels like mist. He tries to think of what he can possibly say to that.

“Uh?” Ok, not the best start, but Helen(?) just keeps smiling, so he tries again. “How are you here? What happened to you?”

“Oh, I _am_ here, now. In a literal sense as well as a larger one. I became it.” She waves a too-large, clawed hand, and that much is obvious. “Michael wouldn’t let me go that easily, but I wouldn’t let them go, either.” He shouldn’t have expected a better answer.

“Are they okay?” A sudden dread fills Martin, that Michael is gone and he’ll never even have the chance to see them again, much less talk this out, chased by guilt for caring in the first place. 

“Oh, they’re physically fine. Though, to be honest, they are sulking! Really, I don’t think they can get any more dramatic,” she laughs, clearly amused, and her tone reminds him of when Sasha brought her older sister to a little party for the Institute. She’d laughed and teased her the whole evening, but Sasha had teased right back, and their ribbing was only interrupted by bouts of laughter. Martin, the only child his mother had been able to tolerate and who his father had failed to tolerate at all, had watched with quiet amazement. He recognizes that same feeling now, crushing the stupid jealousy he’d been starting to develop. Still, it doesn't make the mental image of something like Michael sulking any more reasonable, and he chuckles in spite of himself.

“So… there’s two of you?” Absentmindedly (there is no other way to be, here), he puts a hand to his pocket and lets Penny crawl out, circling his palms so she can keep crawling over them. She seems completely fine despite the Everything around them. 

“Well, hypothetically. I think so.” Helen(?) shrugs, and even though she is clearly this place, something in her seems more… grounded, maybe? Not real, certainly, but different. He takes a deep breath, feels his head ache with his lungs. 

“Which means you live the same way.” She nods pleasantly. “I don’t get it. You know what it feels like to be stuck here, though! I read your statement, I mean. Now you’re just doing that to other people?” He doesn’t really want to be rude to someone(?) he just met, but he can’t wrap his mind around any of it. 

“Helen knew what it felt like. I only remember.” Martin puts his face in his hands as she continues. “But what did you expect me to do? Helen did not want to die, and I do not, either, so here we are. We’re just surviving. But! I get if you don’t like that very much, can’t blame you for that.” He thinks she’s trying to be kind, in whatever way she can. 

“Uh, not exactly. Just. Children?” He doesn’t know how to ask any better, doesn’t even want to know for fear of the answer. 

“As long as I’ve been a part of this, we haven’t taken children, if that’s what you mean. It’s just not practical. They are very, very afraid, but very resilient, and they believe in you right away. And… and I don’t want to eat them.” Her face is twisted up, as though noticing the sentiment for the first time, but she shrugs it off. Martin does feel better, just a tiny bit, even if that standard is ridiculously low.

“But, you know, I did _choose_ this, over dying. Michael didn’t.” Martin sputters, obviously, but she puts a hand up to stop him, and so he stops. “That’s not my place to talk, though I’d _love_ to. I really think they’d maul me if I tried.” He sits, feeling as lost as ever. 

“Why didn’t they tell me? About you, or any of this?” His voice sounds more tired than he expected, drained and flat.

“I think they were worried you might recognize me and figure things out. And, just between you and me, they didn’t want me to ‘embarrass them’.” Helen(?) clearly enjoying herself more than ever, does air-quotes that make him grimace. “For the second bit, I think they were afraid. Of lots of things, but especially losing you! You’ve got a very good heart there, and it’s very obvious. I think anything inhuman practically see it pumping in your chest.” She points one very long finger onto his sternum from the couch opposite him, looking thrilled.

Martin pulls a face. “Eugh. Remind me to wear more layers.” Helen(?)’s laugh is all around him, and he has to put his hands over his ears as politely as possible. She doesn’t seem offended.

“Oh, that wouldn’t help at all. But Michael thought you wouldn’t like it, which you don’t, or you’d put yourself in danger in response, which you have! Obviously I’m not going to hurt you, but you know. Keeping secrets is a little idiotic, if you ask me, but it’s _much_ easier.” 

“Yeah, I know that much. Just. I want to talk to them. I’m not—okay, I’m still mad, but could you please tell them that I want to talk things out?”

“Can do!” She beams, both very strange and very genuine, and Martin has no real idea what’s up with her at all, but maybe that’s for the best. “I’ll try and get you out fast, or sort of fast. Oh, we should do this again some time, it’s so much fun!”

“Uh, yeah, sure? Thanks, Helen.” He shrugs, turning back around the corner once he realizes he’s standing. When he looks back, there is no room at all, just more twisting hallways, and at least now he’s back to what he was expecting.

When Martin finds the door, it is already starting to settle into evening and he’s starving, but the fruit in his kitchen hasn’t rotted, so he’s relatively sure that it’s just many hours later and not days. He chugs a few glasses of water and grabs an apple before heading up towards the lighthouse, legs shaking a little as he climbs the stairs, but he manages it. Now, the silence of the space isn’t deafening at all but comforting, and he lets himself breathe. Martin is almost certain that Michael will give him the honor of showing up, even if it’s the last time. He crosses his fingers and lights the lantern. 

He’s right. When, in late-afternoon, he wanders into the living room for the first time that day, Michael has tucked themself into his armchair. They do him the service of not looking at all comfortable.

“Have you been there all day?” He asks, partially because he’s not quite sure what else to say, even if he’d rehearsed it over and over last night, laying in bed but not tired at all. Michael just attempts something that he thinks must be a shrug that doesn’t go quite right, sliding down out of the chair and then standing to their full height, limbs bent awkwardly and eyes keen. It’s hard to read their expression, even with all his practice, but he tries. 

“Martin. I am apologizing. I am sorry that I didn’t tell you what I was. I am not made to be honest, really, but… I am myself, now, and I should have chosen to do otherwise.” They stand perfectly, perfectly still, but there is earnesty in their voice. They’re really trying, he realizes, and it knocks him a little off balance. They continue.

“I cannot not be this, Martin. I don’t think I am apologetic for that part, either. Starvation does not appeal to me, really.”

“Michael, I wouldn’t—” He starts, but Michael just nods like it knows what he means and continues. Martin thinks that they might’ve thought about this just as much as him.

“I believe I tried not to, at first. That time was especially nebulous, but he didn’t, I didn’t want to take. But I did.” Their fingers are moving, flicking and twitching as their face warps, something like pain, and Martin wants terribly to comfort them, even as he doesn’t understand, but it feels too much. He remembers what Helen said, about choosing and being made. 

“Thanks. For apologizing, I mean; I’m not really the person to apologize to for the rest of it.” They nod, once, sharp and jerky.

“I… have not been as, careful, as I should be. As I can be. You… reminded me of what humans contain. I’ve made myself separate, before. I can’t continue as such.” Even without completely getting it, he nods; now that he’s gotten the larger sense of them, it does seem easy to forget that humans aren’t small things, even without all the flair fear offers. 

“So, what are you going to do?” He crosses his arms, waiting.

“I will not starve, and that means devouring. But those to which madness is a nightmare are not all the same, they are not all… good. I can be intentional, if I want.” They’ve stopped fidgeting, more resolute. He blinks. 

“You’re just going to go after people who deserve it?” It sounds harsh, to say it out loud like that, but Martin’s certain that some people do. “I mean, that way you’d at least be taking some suffering out of the world, I guess. They just have to be afraid?” 

“Of all of Me. They must be easily lost and confused, but with the perception to notice small wrongs. It is… the game of it, I think.” Martin feels sick again, a little, but they tell him honestly. There’s an ironic amount of that, maybe, given the two of them. Martin remembers how desperately unqualified he was for this job and the one before, and wants to laugh at how little that matters now. “You made me reconsider. I’d like to try this way, at least. I… ‘get it’, if you would still want me to leave, but—” They raise their hands in an almost placating gesture, but he cuts them off. 

“Honestly? I’m pretty okay with that. It’s, uh, maybe not ideal, all the way, but it’s definitely better.”

“Hmm. Then I’d like your help. I am not the best, with such things, and input may help. I know humans, in their entirety, can be deeply cruel. And there are those that are callous, who do not value the lives of those who trust them. Those that hurt others without a second thought for nothing at all.” Michael’s voice wavers and their form does the same, shifting at the edges, their eyes narrowed. Martin lets himself step forward and put hand on their forearm, and it helps; their body gets just a little more solid, and the static that pulses up his arm only hurts a little. He’s both glad and a little concerned, but resists the urge to voice either. 

“Yeah, I can help. I think you’ve got a good idea already. People who hurt others, children and animals, stuff like that. We can, we can work this out. Not people like Helen, who’re just unlucky.” He feels lucky, almost, that Michael’s asking for help, that they’re doing this at all. He also feels, all the way to his bones, that he is selfish in a way he never knew possible, to settle for this. It’s flawed, and biased, and it’s almost definitely going to be difficult. But there are terrible people, murderers and worse, and he… he doesn’t want to lose Michael. He still has to wrap his head around it, but at least it’s something. They can both live with this. 

Michael puts their hand over his own, covering it completely. Their skin isn’t warm, isn’t really anything at all except for Michael, but that’s enough. Martin smiles up at them and breathes out.

* * *

Things don’t go back to normal. Normal’s going to be an entirely new thing, now, but he's okay with that. They practice being in one another’s space, not pushing, until spending time together works again. They don’t sit quite as close as they did before and don’t talk quite as easy, but they’re getting there. It’s enough. 

It’s with that cautious distance that Michael offers something. They’re in his living room; he’s tucked himself up on the couch, but they’re sitting on the arm as far away from him as they can get, neither of them speaking. But if they’re doing honesty, they might as well commit. 

“Helen mentioned my beginning,” they hum, not quite looking at him. It’s a statement, not a question, and Martin pauses to wonder how separate Michael and Helen are, exactly (it seems to be plenty, he’s just curious), but it’s not a question for right then. Instead, he just nods.

“You don’t have to—” he might not know what happened, but, looking back, he’s piecing together that it’s not something to force out. Still, they cut him off.

“I do. I am. I am telling you this.”

And they do, as plainly as they’re able to. They tell him of a Michael he has never met and who no longer exists. They tell him of a soft-spoken, awkward man who picked flowers and trusted easily. They tell him of a trip that this stranger looked forward to, the woman he cared for like a mother, the moment he became afraid, far from home with freezing water on all sides.

When Martin reaches out, Michael’s hands are burning with cold beneath his own, cold enough that he hisses, pulling his own hands back at the pain of it. That’s not right. Michael’s almost never a temperature unless they’re trying, and they’re focused entirely on speaking, not looking at him at all. Waves of nausea roll off of them and into him, but Martin barely notices his own sickness. It hurts to share space with them in a way it hasn’t since the very beginning, but it’s _their_ pain, manifested. 

For the first time, Martin interrupts their horrible, sinking story, hurrying to the kitchen and lighting the stove. He warms water in the kettle as fast as he can manage, not to boiling but close, and pours it over the fresh rags meant for cleaning the fresnel lens. When he returns, Michael hasn’t moved at all, so still and small in a way that unnerves him in its unnaturalness. There should be a presence to them, something more, but it’s as if they’ve wrapped themselves in the past, buried behind it.

Lost and feeling stupid for it, Martin drapes the almost-burning rags over them, across their forehead and the back of their neck and wrapped around their hands. He’s completely out of his depth, with something like this, but he can’t do nothing. And they’re cold. 

For all his fumbling, though, they look up at him, eyes just a little bit clearer, pressing a rag between both hands as they start talking again, and the air isn’t quite so frigid. He feels out of breath with relief.

But the story hasn’t finished. 

Michael Shelley stopped, and so did the Great Twisting, and Michael began, there in the wreckage of everything that shouldn’t have been. Gertrude Robinson left on Peter Lukas’ boat without looking back. 

“I did not Want to be. Out of all the powers I knew nothing of, I hated the Distortion the most, enough to drive me into the arms of the institute. And I hated Michael in return, for being nothing at all yet unmaking me. No single part of me wanted to exist as I was. I wanted to tear each part away from the other again, but she made that impossible. But I could not stop being, once I was. It _burned_ ,” they hiss it out, claws scrabbling at the sides of their own face, twisted with pain, and he resists the urge to flinch, keeping his hand on their shoulder. “I was so furious, all the time, and so very starving. There was no other way, after trusting.”

Their voice becomes wound up tight, and shaking up and down as they speak, describing something beyond understanding. And Martin can’t understand, can’t imagine being broken down to nothing and made the thing you hate, not the person or the monster. He doesn’t know how to help and never will and hates it desperately. He wants to try. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers like that could ever be enough, taking them in his arms. They go easily, face pressed against his shoulder and hands clinging to him, and he never wants to let them go, even as their body that was not meant to be shakes and buzzes against his skin, making his head ache. 

“I can’t imagine how horrible that was. But I do think I know what it’s like, to be treated badly by someone who should do better. I… know what it’s like, to feel like you’re not supposed to exist at all. I am sorry, but I’m glad you’re here.” It’s a selfish thing to say, but Martin is letting himself be selfish. He might as well, in a world where those that love are fed to the monsters that become them. Michael is quiet for a long time, still held close, before they pull back enough to meet his eyes.

“Thank you, Martin. I think… I might be glad, too.”

He thinks that, just maybe, this will be okay. Neither of them might be wanted, maybe neither of them are meant to be at all, but they are here now, together. And they’ll stay that way, even if it isn’t easy, with the truth between them.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up!!! I wound up super busy for a few days, and although I might've been able to get it done late Saturday if I rushed it, I didn't want to sacrifice quality. I wanted to take extra time and care with this one since it's a lot more serious to begin with, and then I realized that I needed to make some bigger changes as well, so here we are.
> 
> Also, for the record, I was initially like "hmm maybe Martin's being too harsh with the 'deserve it' thing, is that in character?" But season five has TOTALLY proved me right with that one lol.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like pining!!! -play strawberry blonde by Mitski  
> (Also peep the rating change! Idk if it's actually warranted but I wanted to be safe, and this will be explicit eventually, so)

They find a shaky peace between them again, with time. Michael doesn’t seem to leave at all during the first few days, wandering with him across the island or curling up next to him when he bunkers down to wait out the night, almost as close as before. It takes time, to settle into being together again, but when they do, it seems… deeper than before. There’s a comfort to knowing, a trust, and they both try. It helps that he really, really missed them. 

The downside, though, is that it’s become significantly harder to ignore his own feelings through that comfort and closeness. Sometimes, they smile at him and it feels like he’s been physically punched in the chest, which is really very inconvenient. Or he’ll be writing while Michael amuses themself by scratching strange, fading shapes into his table, and he’ll get completely sidelined by how much he wants to run his hands through their almost-endless mess of hair, curling over their shoulders and down their back like an unruly mane. Or they’ll offer him another little gift, something shiny or useful, and he wants to kiss the back of their hand, sharp edges and all, in thanks. 

Basically, they just exist and that makes him feel like a complete mess. 

And the fact that he kind of wants to spend the whole rest of his life with them isn’t the only thing that sends his mind racing. They’re just. A lot. Handsome and attractive in a way that shouldn’t quite work but really,  _ really _ does for Martin, to his dismay. 

He finds himself caught up in their oil-on-water gaze, staring at the twisting shape of their mouth, watching those big, sharp hands. Martin doesn’t think about anything beyond that. He doesn’t wonder what their jagged fangs would feel like pressed against his jaw, behind his ear, the soft skin of his throat. Doesn’t space out imagining those intense eyes locked on him, keen and satisfied, so attentive. Definitely, completely doesn’t have to excuse himself to make tea when they  _ snarl _ at Penny, a deep, wild sound, something dangerous that hits Martin like a shockwave even through his indignation on her behalf.

The point is, Martin is doing a lot of staring off into space, these days. 

Still, despite his brain frequently giving out, he manages a sense of normalcy. If Michael notices his occasional stuttering or spacing out, they don’t give any indication. Martin isn’t sure if he’s glad, considering (according to Sasha and Tim at least) he’s usually super obvious, or if it just makes it even more difficult to tell how Michael feels in return. The possibility that they’re well aware of his feelings and finds them a little pathetic or, even worse, amusing, hangs over his head. Sure, they were maybe-kind-of human once, but that means very little in terms of romantic relationships, not to mention that they might not be into men, or just. Not into him, the idea which hurts the most. 

Which is fine! Of course it’s fine. He writes a lot of letters to Tim and Sasha, whose advice never changes: “tell them”. His answer never changes, either: “no”. 

Luckily, Market Day gives him a distraction. Annabelle tells him about it in a letter: an annual event where a bunch of merchant ships converge on the harbor for the end of the Summer, filling the plaza up with tents and carts selling all sorts of goods, games and prizes, and general festivities for the whole town. And, separated by a good amount of water or not, he’s part of the town. 

“Michael?” Martin calls, hunched against the wall and lacing up his boots. It’s a moment before they appear, creeping out from their door with an eager wave. “Morning! Um, I know this is a little last minute, but do you want to go into town?” He explains the event as best as he can without ever attending it, but Michael agrees before he can even finish, almost hurrying him out the door in their enthusiasm, and he laughs.

The small harbor is packed full with ships, more than he’s ever seen before, and Martin takes a moment to be glad that he’s been, y’know, doing his job and keeping the light lit. There’s merchant vessels of all different sizes, some from other kingdoms from far across the sea, their strange flags waving in the soft breeze and he walks faster towards the plaza, dragging Michael with him. 

When he glances up, just to catch the glint of sunlight off of their eyes and the flow of their hair, they’ve shifted to look more human. It’s funny, that he’s really so accustomed to their monster form that this mostly-human one is a little disconcerting, but, unfortunately for Martin, it doesn’t make them any less beautiful. 

The plaza is really just a massive field towards the back of the town, bordered on three sides by the beginnings of foothills, but the grass is kept neatly trimmed for things like this. Now, it’s more than enough space for the sprawling market before them, full of tents and meandering people, the sound of cheerful music and the smell of fried food filling the air over the voices. It is invigorating and overwhelming at once, and Martin stands on the brink of it all, vaguely anxious that he’s blocking the path but stuck taking in the sight anyway.

But Michael has no reservations, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers together to pull him into the market, their eyes locked on the excitement all around. Their grip is soft but still way heavier than it should be, a little warped. He hardly even notices, beyond his face heating up a little, and they head into the fray. 

The people who’ve been exploring since early morning have created dozens of small, ephemeral paths in the grass and they wander down them, aimless at first. There’s just so much to look at; there’s the local vendors he recognizes, making sure to wave back at them and promising to stop by later, and then tons of strangers, selling things he’s only heard of and even some he hasn’t. Shiny stones that seem to change colors under the light, thick necklaces and bracelets woven from hundreds of tiny threads of gold and silver, and one stall of tiny potted plants, each lumpy shape bearing tiny, delicate flowers in pink and yellow—and dozens of spikes.

Martin gets stuck at a peddler of old books, pawing through the little poetry section, too excited to be particularly careful with the dusty old volumes. He falls in love with five but buys three, tucking them carefully into the satchel against his side and pretty sure he’ll come back for the other two later. Michael listens intently as he gushes about the styles, some of them written in a form completely unfamiliar to him, and how much he can learn from them.

They stop again at a little cart run by a small boy and his parents, selling their art. The parents’ works are striking, depictions of figures caught in all different sorts of rapture, their faces twisted with expression, and deep landscapes, shadows twitching at the edges, real enough that they look like he could walk right into them. Martin knows better than to try, just in case. 

The boy, who is maybe three years old, presents his own art on a little table, entirely unintelligible scribbles in dozens of colors, with descriptions like “elephant,” “doggy,” and “big house” written neatly by his parents. He stands behind the table, looking very seriously up at anyone who approaches, and Martin has to take a second to resist the urge to buy every single drawing. He settles for just one instead, of a hypothetical spider, thinking he’ll show it to Penny. He hands the little boy a few coins, and he nods solemnly, passing him the drawing while his parents congratulate him. Martin cries, just a little. 

“Martin? Are you alright?” Michael asks, voice crackling in their earnesty, tugging them over so they’re not in the way and firmly stopping, and he laughs through it. He’s not even, like, really crying, just sniffling a little bit.

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry.” They don’t budge, squinting at him with one eye narrowed, and he pushes lightly at their shoulder. “Happy tears, really.”

They oblige, at least, heading back out onto the path, humming. “Humans crying from happiness. I’m disappointed I didn’t think of that, myself,” they tease, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, look at me, I’m a manifestation of unreality and delusion, I control things that don’t make any sense.” Martin tries to make his voice even remotely like Michael’s and fails miserably, ending up with something shrill that makes them both double over with laughter.

“I do  _ not _ speak like that. Thankfully.” They shake their head, but it’s more fond than anything, and his face hurts a little from smiling. 

Towards the center of the market is a pond, sort of. It’s about the size of Martin’s whole cottage twice over, suspended entirely above ground in strong glass tunnels held up by metal poles, with small gaps for children to crawl through to see the water from below. The tubes showcase the lily-pads and turtles and crawdads inside, shifting slowly. And, through the thin patches of silt, there’s flashes of brilliant colors, koi fish in an array of red, orange, white, black, and even shimmering blue, swimming through the tunnels and up into little domes of water with small gaps at the top. They’re bigger than he expected from the books, large, dappled things with endlessly gaping mouths. 

The old woman running the attraction sits in the very center of the maze in a big, worn armchair, fanning herself in the sun and handing them each a bag of food for a few coins at Michael’s request. She deflects Martin’s questions as to how exactly the tanks got there, or, more pressingly, the fish. He doesn’t ask twice. 

The koi are just as hungry as they look, swarming over to the food, and he does his best to distribute it as equally as he can. It’s hard, when the big ones are so big and the little ones so little, but he manages to do a pretty good job. Michael watches him at first, before pouring some into the palm of their hand and copying what he’s doing. Before long, most of the koi and some of the turtles have swarmed to their corner of the tank, sticking their heads up out of the water to get more. At that point, Martin panics and just dumps the rest of his in the water so he doesn’t have to worry about hogging all the fish, watching their mad scramble as Michael continues to drop one piece at a time, a swirl of color through the water. Even with the minor chaos, it’s still peaceful.

“Where do you wanna go next?” He asks, brushing off the last crumbs of fish food onto his trousers when they’re both done. Michael inspects the map, a simple thing with little hand-drawn, cartoony illustrations.

“There appears to be an area labeled “mysticism”. That sounds like it’ll suit us, yes?” They hum, and Martin claps his hands together.

“As long as it’s kitschy, I’m in.”

And _ boy  _ is it kitschy. The little corner of tents, bedazzled with cheap gems or illustrations of crystal balls and stands of talismans, is exactly the level of genuinely supernatural that he needs, which is to say, none. Sure, Martin might be friends with two genuine monsters at this point and know more, but he’s read enough statements about cursed objects to have a very healthy caution. The only part of this that feels genuine is the effort behind it, but the fortune tellers are offering more comfort than realistic visions, and he’s okay with that. There’s no worms or horrible clown music or a creeping sense of isolation, just smoke, mirrors, and a little too much incense. It’s wonderful.

An extremely bald man insists on “reading the future” for Michael, hollering at them from across the path, and their face splits into a huge grin. They make faces at him while the man rambles on about prosperity in business, blatantly making up the entire thing, which would work if Michael was a human, but he just got particularly unlucky. When he starts describing them as straightforward and reliable, Martin actually has to excuse himself, a hand pressed tightly over his mouth. It’s a good effort and they tip him well, of course, but break down laughing once well out of sight. 

By then it’s the early afternoon, so Martin buys himself a nice little toasted sandwich and a funnel cake, and a lemonade for Michael that’s really still for him, but they’ll have something to hold. It’s a pleasant sort of charade. 

The furthest area of the field has been left to its natural state of grass, shady trees, and benches, full of people milling about or sitting and picnicking, and they settle down there to eat. Martin didn’t think to bring a blanket or anything, but the grass is soft beneath his bare legs. Michael curls up next to him, still all awkward angles even when pretending like they have the right number of joints, clutching the frosted glass, eyes intently tracking anyone who wanders around them. 

Eventually, they begin picking the tiny blue flowers embedded into the field and the purple of the clover, admiring them gingerly. Martin tucks their expression away in his heart, the amazement at such a little thing. He remembers how they’d said their favorite poem of his was one that used a flower metaphor, if a messy one. He wonders if that bit is Michael Shelley, if the Distortion has any need for flowers, but squashes the thought down firmly. Really, it doesn’t matter; Michael is here now, exactly as they are, and he loves them. 

Once he’s finished eating, Martin lies down, resting his head on his hands and staring at the puff of clouds in they sky.

The quiet is comforting, at least until it leaves room for a worry he’s been ignoring all day.

“Uh, this probably isn’t really your sort of thing, so sorry if it’s a little boring,” he apologizes, just in case, because he’s just sitting and watching the sky when Michael’s seen things he could never even comprehend. They  _ are _ things he will never comprehend. But they just make a loud click of what he thinks is displeasure, and then they lean over so their face is upside-down above him, blocking out the sky as their hair tickles against his face. He stops breathing.

“Martin.” They sound like they’re trying to be stern, but can’t quite manage to get their voice around it. “I am enjoying this, it is… mundane in a very pleasant way. I’m having fun. And you’re enjoying it, which is enough besides.” They say like that’s nothing at all, and the knot in his chest dissipates.

“Yeah, I really am. This is nice,” he sighs, and Michael twists so they’re looking at him from the right direction, weight resting on one hand near his side. Just looking at them makes it feel like lightning has struck him, the electricity still chasing itself around inside his ribcage.

Martin fails even more at being relaxed, somehow, as they reach down towards his face. Oh-so softly, their finger brushes across his cheek and the corner of his mouth, that strange heaviness pressing down against the corner of his lip, static on his skin with it. It occurs to him that it would be horribly easy to take Michael’s fingers into his mouth, like this.

“Wuhthasd?” Martin says instead, which is probably better in the long run, especially as it gets Michael to draw back, laughing lightly. He wishes they were still close.

“There was powdered sugar on your face.” Like that's any excuse for… whatever that was. He wishes that they’d do it again.

So Martin jumps up and looks anywhere but at them, suddenly way too antsy to lie in the grass. 

“Uh, I think I saw Annabelle around earlier, wanna say hi?”

Annabelle seems to be having good business, a few of the racks out in front of her little tent nearly-empty. No one seems bothered by her bangs completely covering her eyes, just going about their shopping. 

It only occurs to Martin that he’s never actually seen the two of them interact when Michael straightens up next to him, their mane of hair seeming to fluff up just a little and teeth bared, and Annabelle’s knitting speeds up to fever pitch, though she seems otherwise completely composed. Stood directly between them, Martin realizes, hey, he doesn’t want to be in the middle of this, actually! 

“Michael.”

“Annabelle.”

“Wow, you know what, I think I’m going to check out that tree over there, looks pretty, um, important. I’ll leave you to it,” Martin announces, deciding that it is above his pay grade to come up with a real excuse. The tension breaks just long enough for each of them to sincerely wish him goodbye before they just start glaring at each other again.

The tree has a little lizard in it, which is nice, but it skitters away when he tries to get it onto his hand, and there’s so much else to look at. And he knows that Michael will find him again. In the biggest crowd, the ends of the earth, the very loneliest place, Michael could find him again. That should scare Martin, maybe. The fact that he isn’t even a little afraid should probably also scare him. “Should” doesn’t mean very much at all, when he gets down to it. Instead, he’s just comforted.

Meandering through the places he’s already been is relaxing, to just see the people and hear the noise. In a daze he goes, feeling a little like he’s walking on air. Martin buys a pocket book of the occult and a necklace for Sasha, a beautifully engraved traveling mug for Tim to take on adventures, and a set of earrings with miniature spiders on them for Annabelle because he thinks it’s funny. He hesitates a little before buying a glasses case for Jon, because his last one was falling apart terribly when Martin last saw him and there’s a 99% chance he still hasn’t replaced it. It’s a plain enough gift that he probably can’t even protest about it, either. 

And he finds that he’s not in love with him anymore, at least not like he was before. The memories of those feelings are still readily available, the ghosts of the butterflies in his stomach and his tongue ready to tie itself, but he is not actively, hopelessly in love with Jonathan Sims anymore. Huh. He still cares for him, obviously, he’s just able to think about him without also thinking about kissing him even once. Still, even though he’d been relieved to get away from Jon and hopefully his feelings, Martin isn’t really sure how to feel about their disappearance now. He’s spent a long, long time pining after Jon, and now he isn’t. He thinks ‘huh’ to himself a second time, just for good measure.

He mentally shakes his head, deciding to process it more later, because right now he is enjoying Market Day, damn it. 

Martin finds himself in a much larger stand, surrounded on every side by fresh flowers. They line from the floors and all the way up the walls, with batches even hanging from the top of the tent in places, every inch of it bright and joyful. The smell is gently sweet, almost cloying, but not overwhelming, and he is going to buy flowers for Michael. He’s gotten gifts for all the rest of his friends, so it really shouldn’t be weird, but of course that means nothing. Standing there, looking around at the rainbow of flowers and trying to think of what kinds Michael would like, it feels like his heart might pound right out of his chest. 

Martin settles on getting as many of the brightest ones as he can afford, cramming them into a dizzying bouquet that the florist does a double-take at, which means he’s probably achieved his goal. 

He leaves and almost runs right into Michael, which means his dumb plan of giving the flowers as a surprise tumbles directly out the window. Instead, he just holds them up, improvising while just thinking ‘shit’ and nothing else on repeat. Martin hasn’t  _ actually _ messed up, but that doesn’t make him feel any different. 

“Hey! I um. Okay, so I was getting everyone presents while I was here, and I didn’t want to leave you out, so… wait, no, that makes it sound like—you’re not an afterthought or anything, I um.” Martin takes a deep breath, willing himself to say words that aren’t stupid. “I got you some flowers, if you want them?”

  
And Michael beams, taking the flowers and inspecting them carefully, their smile flickering around the edges of their face in its truth.

“Martin!” They exclaim, and then again. “Martin. Thank you! This is stunning, these are truly extraordinary!” Then, in a gesture of affection Martin still doesn’t understand but is doing his best to get used to, they tap their head against his shoulder, hunching in a sort of awkward way to do so, and he chuckles. That just makes them do it again, basically headbutting against his shoulder once more, just a quick tap. 

“Hey! Your hair is pretty. I wanna play with it.” Comes a small, determined voice from next to them, and Martin looks down to find a little girl, maybe six or seven, staring up at Michael with her hands on her hips.

“Oh, Lexi, leave the nice person alone! I’m sorry, she just—you know how kids are,” the girl’s flustered-looking mother tries to apologize, clearly used to her daughter’s antics, but Michael doesn’t seem to hear. He’s not sure they know how kids are at all, but he doesn’t have time to worry. Instead, they kneel down right away, tilting their head so that she can reach her hands into their hair. She does so with absolute gusto, tugging her fingers through the curly mess and nodding like she approves.

“It’s okay, really,” Martin assures the mother, who looks very relieved. He lets himself be distracted by the scene in front of him; Michael, sprawled in the dirt of the path with a huge bouquet of flowers in one hand, nodding along carefully to the little girl’s speech about normal little girl things. 

“Yes, of course. Practicing early is always beneficial.” They assure about her plans to learn witchcraft, if he’s hearing that right, but Michael is nodding, taking her completely seriously. The girl throws her hands up like that’s obvious, still tangled in their hair, and they give a small smile. Martin can’t breathe, actually. He’s never been stabbed in the heart, luckily, but if he had, then he would surely recognize the feeling right away, just from this. He lets himself smile.

“So, how long have you two been together?” The mom asks conversationally, and Martin promptly slips from where he’s leaning up against a tent pole, barely managing to stay standing. 

“Um! We’re not. We’re not actually a couple, sorry.” He has no idea why he’s apologizing to a stranger about that. The mother looks surprised, waving her hands in a placating gesture. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed, I shouldn’t have.” She seems sincere but still plenty shocked, and he can feel himself blushing. “Well. Lexi, we’ve gotta get home to Mama for supper! Say thank you!” She’s clearly trying to make things less awkward by physically leaving, and he can’t blame her, a little relieved himself.

Lexi pouts for a moment before untangling her hands, heaving the most dramatic sigh he has ever heard in his entire life and stomping one foot, but she gives in after a moment. 

“You should do braids in your hair, like mine. That would look prettier!” She calls as her mom steers her away, and Michael nods solemnly.

“I didn’t know you were good with kids,” Martin comments, trying to get his heart-rate back under control.

“I am?” He nods, and they blink, looking out across the fields of people. “Ah. Thank you, Martin. I do think this has been… beneficial, for me. It’s easy to disentangle, from the world, as I am. I was… separate, for a long time, but this helps. I’m orienteering.” Martin’s not sure exactly what they mean, but he gets the general picture, offering a reassuring smile.

“You’re doing a good job! Seriously, it’s been a long day.”

The stalls and stands will remain open through evening, but he finds himself suddenly worn out, longing for the comfort of his own little cottage, the quiet of it. Michael seems happy to oblige, and soon enough, they’re home again. 

Martin offers them a little vase from the back of his cupboards, watching as they put the flowers in, delicate with each and every stem, tucking the vase close to themselves as they disappear into the mess of hallways, promising to put them somewhere safe. Martin allows himself a moment to stare after them, one hand balled tightly against his chest. 

Michael only reappears later, in between his first and second visits to the lighthouse, when the whole world is waiting. The darkness presses its way in all around him, warded off by the candle on his bedside table and the lantern hung over his bed. He’d let Michael into his room for the comfort of it, not thinking about it, and they’re sitting in a peaceful silence.

“Do you want me to braid your hair?” Martin asks, surprising himself with it. Sasha had taught him how, partially because she liked having her hair played with and partially because she liked her hair out of her face when she was working, but was usually too engrossed to do it herself, and he was always more than happy to help. He wouldn’t say he’s the best at it, but he’s definitely not bad. Michael agrees instantly, intrigued, and they rearrange so Martin sits on the edge of his bed, Michael on the floor in front of him, still hunched over a little to be at the right height. 

Their hair is soft and brimming with static against the tips of his fingers, but Martin adjusts to it. He’s used to everything buzzing. He divides a bit of hair into three pieces and then alternates putting an outside piece across the one in the middle, quickly losing himself in the work. It’s simple and methodical and it is for someone he loves. He does one braid on either side and then combines them into a long one in the back, lifting up part of their hair and creating something that he hopes is elegant. Martin is finished too soon, fighting his disappointment as Michael stands and moves to the mirror on his dresser, leaving him alone. 

Their expression, though, makes up for it ten times over, brimming over with amazement. Martin genuinely wonders how much more of this his heart can take. 

“This is beautiful. Thank you, Martin. Thank you, thank you.” Martin scratches at the back of his neck, feeling pleasantly embarrassed. 

“It’s just a few braids, seriously, I can do it any time you want. But I’m glad you like it.” They just gaze at him with something he hopes with reckless abandon is adoration, which is his first clue that something’s gone terribly wrong. The second is how close Martin is to basically confessing, a mess of words balled up on his tongue, trying to push their way out. The candle light flickers over Michael, their form flickering with it, twisted and inhuman and the thing he loves so dearly, and Martin chokes on this words.

“Michael, I…” He starts, before the world comes crashing back in on him, and he swallows the confession, bitter on his tongue.”I just wanted to say thank you. For today. It was really nice, I had a good time.” It’s still true, of course, even if it’s not what he wants to say, disappointment mixed with blind relief. 

He can’t ruin the good thing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this chapter a day early because 1. I completely thought it was Saturday today until two hours ago and 2. last chapter was a little late!
> 
> This one's Extremely fluffy to make up for the last one, too!!! Comment if you enjoyed!!!! :^D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to stupid hours folks, we're really in it now!

The island begins settling into fall, shifting piece-by-piece from breezy, sunny days to cooler mornings and earlier darkness. The area’s not exactly warm to begin with, and the inevitable push towards winter seems more the island’s natural state. He doesn’t really mind. It’s comfortable enough once he gets a good pair of boots, and Annabelle made him the singular warmest piece of clothing he’s ever owned: a wool sweater in faded green with the dark outline of the lighthouse on it. It had been in return for the earrings, despite his protests that it was a gift and he didn’t need anything back. It’s his favorite sweater. 

Michael, of course, isn’t really bothered by the cold, hanging around just as much as ever. True to their words, they sit down and discuss what makes a person bad, who is doing more harm than good, who won’t be missed. It’s not easy, obviously. There really aren’t words for how hard it is, but they do it anyway. When Michael arrives, their face twisted with hunger, hands shaking and the edges of their form twitching, offering a few people but not sure which is worst, Martin helps. He learns about them. 

He never really stops feeling sick, but the nausea from discussing who is going to die mixes with that from hearing what they’ve done. Michael gets good at figuring out who is doing harm, how to listen and look for small signs of greater damage, what’s just petty or a mistake and what is despicable. A woman who poisons her elderly mother so she has the money for a new dress, feeding her only deadly scraps as the planned illness worsens, pocketing money until there’s none of the frail old woman left. A man from a far-off kingdom, the general in a war Martin only hears about occasionally, who ordered his soldiers to attack the unarmed citizens, children and all. The man pushing sixty who plans to take a bride far too young. 

It’s a reminder of just how much bad there is in the world, really, the double-edged sword of hearing the crimes and committing the living, breathing people who’ve done them to memory. To remember that they have a choice, that they do not survive on their wrongs. Still, it’s not Martin choosing; Michael is very, very careful to never ask that, to never put that weight on his shoulders, but he does give his input when they need it and hears it all. It feels necessary, that someone should know. That they give value to the lives, even the horrible parts of them. 

And Michael is trying. They consider everything carefully, for him and for themselves. It’s not good, he doesn’t think that deciding who should die  _ can _ be good, but it might be the best that the two of them can do. They might make some lives better, at the very least.

But not everything is so morbid. Even though it gets darker and colder, Martin feels like his cottage just gets warmer. He puts up art he bought in the village, paintings of places he’s never been, little weavings, and a tiny statue of a frog that goes in his windowsill, making him smile every time he sees it. He keeps the place clean, washes the windows so that what light there is floods in over shining floors, lights candles that smell like summer flowers. The lighthouse beam cuts through any dark there is, anyway.

In the midst of it, Martin finally sets about cleaning out the greenhouse. He’d peeked into it exactly once when he first moved onto the island, been immediately overwhelmed, and then ignored it for months. The building itself is mostly intact, luckily, but clearly Peter Lukas hadn’t bothered so much with the inside. The planters had looked like a tornado had hit them, everything covered with dust, dirt, and a healthy helping of dead plants and leaf litter. There were a few small gaps in the roof, and the door was almost off its hinges. Considering that it turned out that Lukas was, in fact, an entity that fed off of loneliness and only used the lighthouse to isolate people, Martin is not particularly surprised.

Now, though, he’s got plenty of time, determination, and the desire to be able to eat something fresh once winter sets in. Reading through quite a few gardening and farming manuals has given Martin a little bit of confidence, at least in choosing the easiest vegetables he possibly can, and if he has a greenhouse he might as well use it. He sets to work. 

The first thing Martin does is take Penny out of his pocket, giving her a tiny little kiss on her fuzzy head before setting her one the floor, hoping she’ll take care of the pests. 

“Okay, I think that lady bugs, worms, and pollinators are all helpful, so just eat everything else. Got it, Little Miss?” He calls after her, watching her scuttle away and chuckling a little to himself. 

As for his own work, he starts by figuring out which of the pots and planters haven’t been completely smashed and clearing out the ones that have, picking through the pieces of ceramic and glass with a heavy pair of gloves. Setting the intact ones aside, Martin moves to the dead plants, which’ve been there long enough to actively start decomposing in places, hauling them up out of the dirt and making a big pile for the compost. 

When he sees the yellow door set into the glass wall of the greenhouse, Martin can’t quite manage to fight off his smile. It’s been a few days since he’s seen them, after all.

“What are we working on in here? This is in mayhem,” Michael notes, stabbing one finger through an extremely dead elephant ear and twirling it around.

“You can say that again. Uh, I’m trying to get this usable again so I can grow things in here.” Michael lights up instantly, a small bubble of color bursting around their head. “Would you mind setting up those shelves over there?” They do not mind at all, jumping into their work easily and helping with the heavy lifting. 

Getting everything in proper order takes two whole days’ effort, including lunch breaks and a good amount of goofing around. He sweeps and organizes and hauls things back and forth, throws what isn’t needed away and brings in stuff from the shed. Replacing the broken glass pains is a little more complicated, but they manage it after a few tries, along with fixing the door. Martin’s shoulders are sore by the end of it, combined with various bruises and scratches across his body, but it’s worth it. It makes it feel real, somehow, to bear the marks of all his hard work. He did this, and the scuffs prove it. He stands in the doorway and inspects their progress. 

They’ve got about six sets of big tables through the center of the greenhouse, sturdy enough to hold deep trays of potting soil mixed with compost. Piled around the legs are about three dozen haphazard pots in a hodgepodge of every size, shape, and color, some held together by glue in places and most with at least chip or two. Around the edges of the building he uncovered divots in the floor that reach down into the soil of the island itself. They’d been full of rocks at first, but a good amount of kneeling in the dirt and adding some fresh soil had helped. 

Thanks to their disruption of whatever ecosystem had overtaken the greenhouse in the absence of a single living person, combined with Penny’s appetite, they’re mostly free of house-spiders and aphids. There’s a small red faucet for filling up watering cans near the door that’s now only a little bit rusty, and a big wood stove on the far end to keep the greenhouse warm throughout the winter. Michael has hung a good amount of planters from the ceiling, too, which sway gently from side to side. 

On the third day, they plant, the part he's been looking forward to most of all. 

When he was maybe seven or eight, one of their neighbors had caught him watching him gardening, and the old man had offered him a small handful of bean and cucumber seeds, telling him how to make them grow. Martin had pressed them into the soft earth of his window box, the one with the faded paint that had come with the tiny house, watered them, and waited for them to sprout. 

He’d sat at the window for hours every day for a little over a week, every moment where his mother was busy and he’d finished his growing list of chores, only to wake up one morning and found that they’d sprouted without him. 

He remembers them so clearly; the sprouts that had burst forth, fresh and barely green, with tiny, watery stems and round leaves, some of them with the split husk of their seed still wrapped around the top, which he tugged off with careful fingers. They’d gotten bigger and bigger, shown more leaves, roots cracking through the earth and dangling out the window. But the house was a cheap one and the backyard was not theirs’. Martin’s mother had barely listened when he asked for a pot, and he hadn’t dared to ask a second time.

The plants withered without the space to grow in fewer days than it had taken them to begin, and Martin had watched.

As it turns out, the wonder of growing things hadn’t subsided with roughly twenty years and the wears of adult life, not even a little bit. He tucks the seeds in, one by one, not particularly bothered that it’s not very efficient, just happy to get his hands into the dirt. 

Martin plants mostly vegetables: a bed of lettuce, one of cucumbers for pickling, then more for peppers, peas, carrots, onions, arugula, and spinach. He saves one of the trays for herbs, making sure to separate the mint into pots so it won’t take over everything else, and puts tomatoes, potatoes, and radishes into the bare earth of the lower garden spaces. Strawberries go in a planter in the corner, and the one opposite gets miniature pumpkins, because he’s decided to be optimistic. 

Martin spent the time before his second shift in the lighthouse the night before making markers for each vegetable, writing on the wooden sticks the name of the plant, the expected germination time, and the time until harvest if everything goes according to plan. He puts them in as he goes, a little reminder of the good things to come. Caring for all of them will be a lot of work, but Martin’s excited for all of it. 

He leaves a good chunk of the pots and the hanging planters for Michael to use at their leisure, if they want to. It’s not like they need to fill every possible space on the first go, but part of him wants to do this together. It is, naturally, both the most stupid part and the most heartfelt, the one that makes him want to put his head in Michael’s lap whenever they sit next to him, to kiss them every chance he gets, to wake up next to them everyday. He’s grown used to a base level sort of pining, but that doesn’t really make it any easier.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for them to show up just before dinner with a mess of plants clutched in giant hands and tucked between their elbows. They’re still seedlings, mostly, but all very much growing, living plants, carrying little bundles of dirt between their roots. The edges of Michael’s fingers are coated with dirt, and he gets the ridiculous mental image of them tracing neat squares right through the earth with their fingers, digging. They set the bunch of plants on the unused stove while Martin gapes, before ducking back into their hallways and returning with another batch, and then one more. There’s a buzzing energy coming off of them, a sort that doesn’t hurt anymore, just zaps a little bit under Martin’s skin in their happiness. Little dots and whirls of color dance around their head.

“Michael, where did you get those?” He asks, staring but not quite managing to be mad. 

“I took them from the soil, and I’ll return them there now.” They shrug, another little burst of colors and shapes matching their sharp-tooth grin.

“Let me try that again. Michael, did you steal those plants?”

“They’re going to be flowers, I believe.”

“Oh my god, you stole them.”

They take a handful over to the pots and begin digging, gently shaking out the roots before putting them in and patting the dirt back up around them. Martin would offer a shovel, but it’s not like their hands can get any dirtier, at this point. Instead, he just carries over another handful, watching out for the tiny stems and leaves. They don’t have any markers made for these, but he suspects they know exactly what’s growing where. 

“Everything belongs to nature, in the end. I believe I’m just borrowing.” 

“Well, if whoever you’re ‘borrowing’ from comes knocking at our door, you’re answering it.” Martin shakes his head. Somebody’s going to to wake up and realize they have to do some landscaping. 

Michael plants each flower with the same slow dedication, methodical and focused entirely, and, besides filling up the watering can for them, Martin just watches. They are so very delicate in a way he’s learned to expect, careful not to cut any of the leaves and patting down the dirt, and he, unbidden, thinks that’s how they are with him, too. 

Martin pulls a face to himself and mentally backtracks, trying to think what that thought could possibly mean. Obviously they don’t treat him like a plant, that’s not it. It’s more… the gentleness of it, the unexpected intent of care when it doesn’t come easy. They are made for destroying things and choose otherwise. 

Penny skitters up his leg and he lets her crawl across the palm of his hand, wheeling them over each other so she can keep going, content to sit among all their hard work and watch. 

* * *

In Sasha’s next letter, she announces that they’re coming to visit again, and that they’re bringing Jon this time. She leaves room for him to refuse or shift to a date that works better, but it’s not like Martin’s going anywhere, so he agrees and gives them fair warning that, this time, they’re going to meet Michael. 

Martin is both incredibly excited and incredibly terrified to introduce everyone. He’s well aware that how much he cares about all of them won’t necessarily mean they’ll actually get along, and the possibility of awkward silences and attempts at polite conversation are even worse than outright hostility. There’s also the possibility that Tim and Sasha thinks he’s exaggerated about Michael, just in general, and have underestimated The Way That They Are, but it’s Jon that worries him the most. Sasha says she’s explained to him, but really, he can’t decide if he’s more worried that he’ll try to study them or pull off their hands just to prove that it’s a very elaborate costume. Neither option is good.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like me to come? Michael asks, perched absurdly on top of one of his shelves, and Martin just shakes his head. 

“I think it’ll be easier if they see you the uh, real way first, get it over with and everything. No offense! Sorry, I—” Martin flails his hands and his apology, but Michael just shakes their head, unconcerned.

“None taken. I’m… anticipating meeting everyone,” they assure, hands twitching, and at least he’s not the only nervous one. 

Martin pauses by the door, struggling to get his scarf bundled up properly, so that it’ll cover his neck completely but also the lower half of his face since the cold has set in more thoroughly. Before he can get it unwrapped all the way to readjust, another set of hands joins his own. Michael is suddenly very close to him, their front plastered up against his back, hunched slightly over his shoulder. Their right arm is halfway wrapped around him, reaching up to tug at the scarf, and their hair tickles against the soft skin of his neck when their breath will not. If they moved forward just the tiniest bit, their hips would press up against him. If their hand dropped, it would cup against his chest. If they dipped their head down just a little, their mouth would find the space behind his ear.

Martin stands entirely still, a rabbit caught in the gaze of a fox except the fox is the exhilarating, terrifying possibility that the proximity is  _ on purpose _ , as Michael wraps the scarf easily across his mouth, the buzz of their fingers so close to his skin but so far. For a moment, two of them are not breathing instead of the usual one. 

It is a good thing that there’s a layer of fabric over his mouth, or Martin’s pretty sure that he would reach out, still Michael’s hand before it pulls away, and kiss their palm.

But there is and he doesn’t. Instead, they just step back, expression entirely unreadable, though just how jumbled Martin’s thoughts are certainly doesn’t help.

“There. Now you won’t become too cold.” They offer, and he nods stupidly, giving a half-hearted wave before walking backwards out the door, very nearly falling over on his way out. Instead, he just stumbles, the cold of the afternoon pressing against him instantly, a relief with how much his body temperature has just spiked. 

His heart keeps pounding until he’s halfway across the water, and even then it still isn’t quite slow enough. Martin wishes that he wasn’t so easily flustered. He wishes that he didn’t have to wish that. 

“Hey, Michael, I’m completely, head-over-heels in love with you, just by the way! Oh, you don’t experience love as an emotion? Okay, cool, I’ll just die, don’t worry about it!” He says out loud to himself, rolling his eyes. Then he twists around in the boat, just to make sure that there’s only empty water all around him, no doors in sight. Michael’s habit of popping unexpectedly means he should really just process his feelings through writing and not out loud. He really can’t tell if they return his feeling or if they’re just Like That about everything, and the idea of getting an answer, any answer, scares him an awful lot. It’s just. 

On the open water, with all the work he’s done and plenty of time writing it out, Martin can accept that it’s a little hard for him to think of anyone loving him romantically. He trusts his friends love him, of course, he owes them that, though it’s not without effort and reminding himself a lot. That kind of love just seems… a little separate, from the idea he has of himself. And he does love Michael, so much it hurts sometimes, enough that he feels like he could drown in it, enough that he knows the feeling will only deepen with time, and the idea of anyone feeling that way about him… it’s just not quite there.

He very firmly decides to stop worrying about it, though, when he finds his friends in front of him, standing off to the side of the road and talking among themselves. This time, it’s Martin who runs at them, yelling out a greeting that also serves as a warning for the impending hug-collision. 

They all look the same as he remembers, of course, just a bit colder. Jon looks a little like he’s drowning under a coat that’s way too puffy, one hand sticking out to hold his cane, but he did always run chilly. He actually looks better than when Martin last saw him, less stressed and weary, and the smattering of scars left over from the worms have healed about as much as they’re going to. Martin smiles at him, feeling surprisingly normal about the whole interaction, and Jon gives a tentative, awkward smile back. It looks a little more like a grimace, and Martin laughs, pulling all three of them into another hug.

They smush in together on the walk back to the pier, shoulder to shoulder against the wind, chattering excitedly. 

“Soooo, we’re finally gonna get to meet _ the _ Michael, huh?” Tim asks, somehow managing to elbow him in the side, and Martin gives a long-suffering sigh that’s less effective that he wants.

“I mean, yeah, but only because I expect you to be Normal About It. Please.” Sasha hmm’s in a way that does not really convince him that she’s going to stick to that expectation. 

“Well. I’m not sure if any of this can be quite normal, from what I’ve heard,” Jon comments, and Martin shrugs. It’s a pretty fair opinion— something becoming the norm probably doesn’t make it  _ normal _ , really. 

“I’m sure we’ll behave as long as they do.” Sasha now sounds suspiciously placating, and she stifles a laugh when Martin gives her a look. “Hopefully my expectations aren’t too high, seeing as I’m working off your letters here.” 

“Hey! I’m pretty sure I was…” he trails off before getting to the word accurate, thinking about the late-night letter where he spend two whole paragraphs just trying to describe Michael’s laugh. Martin tucks his face back down into his scarf instead of finishing the sentence. 

He’s fully turtled himself by the time they actually get back to his house. 

When he leads them into the kitchen, Michael is standing there, four mugs dangling from the fingers of one hand, and the tea inside should really, really be all over the floor at that angle, but they don’t seem to notice. Their mouth is one wide, flat line, eyes a little wide, and the ends of their hair are curling and uncurling slightly around their knees. His friends stop talking at once, freezing into place, and Martin tries briefly to think about what they must look like, to anyone who's not used to them. They are, of course, significantly too tall, with maybe a few extra joints, bent at the wrong angles in places. The hands holding the mugs are huge, with long, thin fingers trailing off into dangerous looking points. Their eyes, hypothetically green, are shifting like oil-slicks. Yeah, he decides, it’s a fair reaction.

“Hello.” Michael waves their hand, the mugs clanking together but still not spilling a drop. “I believe I should offer you some tea. Do you have a preference for flavor?”

For a moment, everyone just gapes, and he’s worried that he’s broken his friends.

Then Sasha says, “Do you have any peppermint? And thank you. It’s pretty cold out, I could use some tea. I’m Sasha, it’s nice to meet you.” She offers her hand, and Michael takes it in their free one, shaking it lightly, and Martin exhales. The others introduce themselves and accept the tea (Jon takes english breakfast even though it’s evening, which seems completely unreasonable to Martin. Tim goes for hibiscus) and he takes the last mug. It’s chamomile without him even needing to ask. 

It’s much easier to talk after that, at least for the others. Martin lets himself to take the backseat, watching them chat and sipping his tea, relieved to the brink of exhaustion. Michael does a valiant job of answering all their questions, at least in a very Michael way. Sasha, like he expected, has plenty of them, while he catches Jon looking at Michael’s claws with something like indignation. When he meets his eyes, he feels brave enough enough to raise an eyebrow. Jon just shakes his head in exasperation, looking a little like their hands have specifically wronged him, and he stifles a laugh. He tunes back in to the rest of the conversation and finds that there is now a door set, flat, in the middle of his countertop. This is not worrying.

“Okay, so if I open it, it’ll lead to those hallways, right? Will I come out a regular, vertical door or would it be more like a trapdoor?” Sasha asks, scribbling notes onto the palm of her hand.

“It would be a trapdoor.”

“Is there a limit to how large or small the doors can be? Or any objects you can’t materialize the door in?” Jon asks, finally seeming comfortable, or interested, enough to talk. Michael doesn’t say anything at first, just shrinking the door until it’s about the size of a grain of rice. “This door is entirely pointless, of course, unless I was interested in luring ants. I could make a very large door, but that could decimate the island.”

They flick one hand, and the door starts to move around the room, first against the wall but then on the stove, in a book Martin left open, even on his mug, and he laughs in surprise. 

“Ok. Have you ever put it into something living?” Sasha asks, and Martin pulls a face.

“Heh, that’s what she said,” Tim adds, but he’s leaning forward, too, and Martin really just introduced his paranormal archivist friends to his monster.

“It never occurred to me. I don’t see why I couldn’t.”

“Well,” Sasha announces, standing and clapping her hands together. “I volunteer. For the sake of research.” 

“Um, Sasha, are you sure?” Martin yelps, even though it’s clear she’s made up her mind. 

Michael watches her intently for a moment, and then there is a door in Sasha’s torso. He promptly chokes on his tea, but it’s still there when he catches his breath, but she looks completely fine. It’s just… embedded in her, from about her waist to her shoulders, without a sign of blood or any other disruption.

“That’s fascinating.” Jon leans forward in his seat, flapping the hand that isn’t cradling his tea, and Sasha gives a little twirl and an incredulous laugh. “Can you open it?”

“Oh, please don’t, I really don’t want to see your insides!” Martin turns away on his stool, a little lightheaded. 

“You just don’t have the stomach for this, huh?” Tim asks, finger-gunning at him, and he groans. “Don’t worry, I’m sure something like that would take a lot of guts.”

“Tim, I’m going to kick you out of my house if you don’t stop that. You’ll—you’ll have to swim back to the institute.”

“Martin, I’d catch a cold! You’d do that to your dear, dear friend?” He gasps, and Martin rolls his eyes, and then they both burst into laughter. Once Martin catches his breath, he sees the look on Tim’s face, and immediately starts shaking his head. Tim is not dissuaded.

“I guess you like them tall then, huh?” He asks, and Martin looks around, relieved to see that the others have moved across the room and fully distracted. Michael’s sticking their hand in one open door, Sasha and Jon watching, amazed, as their fingers wriggle, stuck out of another. It should keep them distracted for how fast he wants to get the conversation over with. 

It’s terribly, horribly embarrassing, combined with the distinctly school-yard fear of being Found Out, but also sort of nice. Just to have that kind of fun and a tiny bit of attention. And as much as Tim likes to joke, he’s always kind about it, friendly in a way that makes him easy to talk to. Martin knows he’d drop it if he gave even a hint of discomfort. Through the embarrassment, he’s still comfortable.

“Tim. It’s not—that’s not—” He’s trying to say that he doesn’t have a thing for tall guys, though he certainly doesn’t  _ mind _ looking up at Michael, but it just doesn’t happen. 

“Hey, nothing wrong with that. Though I guess you’re taking it to extremes.” And he smiles, warm and comforting and friendly, completely welcoming. It’s just  _ Tim _ , basically, and Martin loves him. “But I’m glad. Really, they seem nice, you deserve good things.” 

“Hey, you’re talking like we’re already a thing. Which we’re not. And! We’re not going to, that’s not going to happen.” Tim just shrugs, as though that isn’t a very, very key detail. 

The night fades fast, tucked between his first and second visit up the lighthouse, everyone trailing up after him once again. Martin has a hunch that they’re all going to get along just fine, actually, as he watches Sasha pass out on the couch (she’s the one who volunteered to take it, and the only one sleeping where they’re supposed to), Tim nod off sitting up, his head bent back at a horrible angle onto her stomach, and Jon at the kitchen table. It honestly looks like he’s had way, way too much practice sleeping in chairs. Martin takes off Sasha’s bracelets as carefully as he can so they don’t pinch her overnight, puts a pillow under Tim’s head so he’ll be able to move his neck tomorrow, and drapes a blanket over Jon, moving at a snail’s pace the entire time with the hope it’ll make him quieter. 

When he’s finished, he finds Michael waiting for him in the hallway to his room. It’s almost entirely dark, just the swinging flame of his handheld lantern. He nods backwards, backpedaling until they’re at the other end of the hallway, farther away from the door and hopefully less likely to wake his friends. Everything is quiet all around them besides the wind, and Martin settles into the peace, yawning. 

“Well, I think that went okay.” He sighs, wiping a hand down his face.

“Yes. I think you’ve chosen very good companions, Martin,” Michael whispers, the tone unnatural for their voice, but not bad at all. “I found Jon particularly enjoyable. He is  _ incredibly _ botherable.” Their grin splits wider, and he muffles a laugh in the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, okay, that’s completely fair. Sorry if they were, uh, bothering you about the door stuff.” 

“Oh, no, it was… entertaining. I hadn’t bothered to wonder such things, myself.” They pause for a moment, seeming to think. “It feels strange, to leave, when you’re all still here.”

“You don’t have to!” Martin’s voice is way louder than he wants, and he flushes a little, toning it down. “I mean. You can stay, if you want to, Michael. You can always stay. Sorry if I didn’t make that clear, and I know you don’t actually sleep, and I don’t actually have any guest rooms right now because of the guests, but. You’re always welcome.” He is distinctly aware that he is rambling himself in a dangerous direction, too close to what he really means. Too close to “please stay”. Too close to “please stay with _ me _ ”. Too close to “I love you”. Martin closes his mouth. 

Michael doesn’t say anything, just watches him with an imperceptible face for a long, long moment, and he worries that he’s already ruined everything. And then Michael leans in. 

Martin doesn’t process what’s happening, doesn’t even think anything at all as he sees Michael’s face get closer to his, leaning down until they share the same space. 

But Michael doesn’t kiss him, what Martin wants so desperately that he can almost feel the ghost of their lips against his. Instead, they turn to the right and softly press the angle of their cheek against his. He understands the static buzz of Michael’s skin against his, and then they are rubbing their face up against his own slowly, across his cheekbone and to his ear, to just barely across his neck. It’s the way a cat shows affection, the part of him that isn’t going comatose points out, how they mark what is theirs. 

And Michael  _ is _ rumbling. It’s not quite the shape of a cat’s purr, a bit too reedy, and much, much larger. There is more behind it, the faintest buzz of static in the noise that shakes through him ever so slightly with each roll of the tone. They are so slow and so insistent, rubbing up against the sensitive skin of his neck like it’s nothing at all, and he holds his breath. He’s worried he’ll make noise if he doesn’t, eyes fluttering closed, melting into the strange sensation. It’s so much. He just lets Michael press their face up against his in bizarre affection, trying to ignore the way his legs are shaking, the heat pooling in his gut at the contact. 

Even though the sheer closeness should make him tense up, something about that strange, rattling not-purr rumbles right through him, sinking down into the center of him and pushing him to into deep relaxation. It makes him feel like a melting pad of butter. His legs want to give out, suddenly, as he feels the vibrations through his ribs and Michael’s lips brush, just barely, just for a second, against his neck as they press against his skin. He wants to put his arms around them to stay standing, wants the sturdiness of their hands on his waist, holding him up. He knows they could hold him as easy as anything, every single piece of him (even the pieces he’s hidden away, even the pieces he doesn’t like), and his feet would never touch the ground. Martin puts a hand on the wall to steady himself instead.

When his brain starts working again, he chuckles, the sound definitely a little delirious, and leans up to hug Michael in return. That’s what he’s pretty sure is happening—a physical sort of thank you. Just, different than what he’s used to.

After a few moments, they finish up with… whatever just happened, the rumbling dropping to something quieter but still there, and they pull back, grinning. 

“Goodnight, Martin. I hope you sleep well.” Before Martin gets the chance to say anything at all, Michael has stepped backwards through a sudden door, disappearing from view, and he’s left red-faced and floating. 

“Huhhhhhhgghhh,” Martin says, collapsing onto the floor with his burning face in his hands, trying to not completely melt into a puddle on the floor. It’s only in that silence that he notices the whispers. He holds his breath, leaning closer to the wall on his right.

“—No, come on, they’re definitely gone, come on guys.” 

“Um, I don’t think we should continue to—”

“Shh! Keep quiet.”

Hm.

Martin lifts himself to his feet and, sock-footed, creeps over to the doorway back into the living room, breath held tight in his throat. He opens the door and chaos ensues. 

Tim, Jon, and Sasha all tumble out, falling on top of each other in a pile of limbs and curses, from where they have very clearly been listening through the door. Martin stares down at them. They all stare right back.

“So, did you guys just kiss, or what?” Tim asks conversationally, lifting himself up from where he’s crushing Jon’s ribcage. 

“ _ No _ , we didn’t but. That’s really not the important thing to address, here! Were you guys really eavesdropping on me? Were you fake sleeping?” 

“I think there’s no point in denying that, at this point.” Jon pushes his glasses back onto his face, long hair ruffled. “So, yes, we were. But it was Sasha’s idea.”

“Okay, yes, it was my idea, but.” She looks like she’s going to defend herself for a moment, then just shrugs. “I was curious. Speaking of which, what happened?” Martin gives up and does his best to recap what they didn’t hear.

“What you’re telling me is that Michael rubbed their face all over your face, and you still don’t think they’re into you?” Tim crosses his arms, unconvinced.

“I don’t know!” Martin whisper-yells, throwing his hand into the air. “I don’t know if they really communicate the same way, really. I don’t even know if they work like that!”

“That’s a fair point. It’s hard to say if something like Michael’s experience of the world is comparable to our own. What? That’s true!” Jon adds, defending himself from Sasha and Tim’s glares. 

“But Martin won’t ever know that if he doesn’t ask, will he?” Tim points out. Martin feels like they’re not really addressing the fact that they were listening in on his conversation quite yet. 

“Well, I suppose not…” 

“I’m not going to! How—In what way would that be normal thing to ask, ever?” 

“I believe in you, Martin, you can figure it out.” Sasha pats his hand, laughing at the look he gives her, before putting both hands on his shoulders and steering him to face her. “Martin. You’re very smart. Michael is almost definitely interested in you.” She shakes him, just a little, and he scowls. 

“Look, I literally can’t know if they do dating, or, or anything like that. And I’m  _ not _ just asking.” He explains, feeling a little bit too stubborn about it. 

“Fine, you can just sit there and wallow when it’s so obvious.” Tim adds, accepting the elbow to his ribcage with dignity. “Either way, we’re here for you. But oh my god.

“Yes. We… support you, Martin.” Jon sounds a bit like he’s pulling teeth, but that means he’s being sincere, and Martin smiles. 

“Alright, thanks guys. But seriously, don’t creep on me again like that again, I’ll just tell you what happens.  _ If _ anything happens, which it won’t. Now please go to bed for real.” 

They do, and Martin does the same, crashing down onto his soft mattress, exhausted and discombobulated. Before he drifts off, he presses the back of his hands to his cheek, following the same path across his skin that Michael had. Then he buries his smile in his pillow, giddy with it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm totally not saying you should go ahead and write Martin/Michael fic if you've ever thought about it, but I DO check the tag for them literally every morning even though there's never anything new, so I WOULD totally read it if you did. (At least, as long as it's something I just don't read as a rule). Totally not saying that. 
> 
> Only two chapters left! We're getting there, folks! I appreciate every single person who's read this far :^)!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not know a thing about nice clothes, music, or dancing, but doggone it that's not gonna stop me from writing about those things. Also, Annabelle will see Martin and Michael pining and will simply grab some popcorn.
> 
> Peep the rating change!

The next two days are some of the best, he thinks. Even with his friends living far away, it doesn’t feel like stolen time at all. He knows he’ll see them again soon, and that they’ll write each other, and that he’ll be happy in between. It’s funny; Peter Lukas’ plan has exactly backfired. Or, that’s what he thinks.

The last night of their visit, something is clearly wrong with Jon. Everyone has made dinner together, and it’s actually decent, their general chaos made up for with the fun of cooking it alone. But instead of eating, Jon’s tapping his fingers against the table again and again and again, a tiny drumline. At some point, Martin’s brain must’ve marked it as important enough to immediately know that he’s nervous, which is making him also nervous, mostly because there’s really nothing to be nervous about. At least, not as far as he knows. 

“Jon? You okay?” He asks in lieu of demanding what he needs to start worrying about, too. Jon pulls a face, his fingers picking up speed. It takes a long time for him to start speaking, and an even longer one for him to get to the point.

“Erm, so this might be a bit unexpected, it’s a little out of the blue. And I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, at all. Some of it is conjecture, Elias is, you know, horrible about actually explaining pertinent information, but I think—” 

“Jon?”

“He… implied that Peter Lukas might be coming back. He made it sound… unpleasant, but as soon as I actually asked, he stopped saying anything useful. I think there’s some sort of competition, there, and I think he may be trying to interfere.” Jon huffs, sounding incredibly tired of putting up with Elias.

“So what’s he gonna do? Evict Martin? He doesn’t even own the lighthouse anymore.” Tim points out, but he’s only half-listening. It is one thing to know that a man is a monster and another entirely to understand that. Martin’s not sure he does, entirely, but he does remember the haze of his first few months at the lightstation, the blank weight of it. He thinks that being evicted is the absolute least of his worries. 

For the first time, he understands just how little he matters, in the grand scheme of things, to certain people. To Peter Lukas, he’s just a slow meal who’s started causing problems, maybe even less. And, for Elias, he was just the most expendable, something to wager. It doesn’t matter how much he feels like a person and not a pawn, they simply don’t care.

“I think it’ll be something more forceful than that. If he can’t slight Elias by getting Martin into the lonely through the lighthouse alone, the statements I looked into indicate that he could very well force him there.”

Michael hisses, lips twisted into a snarl from where they’re perched on the counter, seeing as they don’t actually eat. Their hair has doubled in size from its usual mess, taking up a whole corner of his kitchen.

“He could certainly try,” they spit, and hey, Martin does feel a little bit better. He ignores the very pointed look Sasha gives him as she kicks him a little under the table.

“So, if this guy can just put Martin into isolation, what can we do about it? Can we stop it?” She leans forward then, all business, and he lets out a breath. They spend the last evening of his friends’ visit sat around the table, discussing different possibilities, everything they know from the archives and Elias’ horribly vague musings, Michael helping where they can as the candles slowly wearing down. They don’t even know for sure if Lukas is coming back (from where, exactly, Martin couldn’t care less) and if he finds Martin worth the trouble, but the possibility hangs heavy over him. He kind of wishes he’d paid more attention to the man himself when moving in, instead of just being nervous about being unqualified for the job. It’s not exactly the conversation he wanted to have right before not seeing any of them again for awhile, but he is so, so glad to have them there. And it won’t be the last conversation, he’s decided that. 

He’s scared, sure, Peter and Elias might have gotten that. But Martin isn’t alone.

* * *

Despite Jon’s warning, life continues on, simply because there’s no other option. It’s not like there’s much to do about the possibility that Peter Lukas shows up at any moment, anyway, especially when that’s not even certain. Instead, Martin buys preserved fruits and vegetables in town, waters the greenhouse and watches the earth burst open with tiny, pale-green sprouts, some of them with the shells of their seeds still resting over the new leaves. He pulls them off with careful fingers, letting the plants spread out, and suddenly everything is alive. It’s another small part of the full life he’s making. 

One day, about two weeks after the news, Annabelle pulls him into her shop (just by calling his name, though he knows that she could simply steer him in if she wanted) once he’s finished buying eggs. The air inside is always the same, no matter the season, just a little warm and very still, but not unpleasant. There’s the slightest smell of lavender, even though he’s never seen a living plant or even a candle inside. 

“Martin. How have you been?” She asks, the question weighted more than it should be from her words alone, and he shrugs, offering a vague answer about still waiting. She’d offered her input on the Peter situation as soon as he’d asked, but that was all. He doesn’t quite understand the strange politics of the various entities, but there definitely are some, and they’re definitely complicated. He’d decided against asking her for more. 

“Hm.” She pauses for a long time, undoubtedly watching him with all eight eyes beneath her bangs, and Martin just gazes back, used to it. “Then you’ll be able to attend our Autumn Festival. It’s an annual celebration on the 30th, to mark the end of the season and the harvest. You and Michael will attend.” She doesn’t actually phrase it as a question, technically, but he nods anyway, smiling. 

To be fair, it does sounds like the perfect distraction from a possible threat he can’t even do anything about, and she hasn’t lead him wrong before. If he’s going to be randomly hurtled into an abyss of isolation or whatever, he might as well be having fun before hand.

They talk for awhile longer, until it’s time for him to head back to the island for lunch, catching up. They return to the game they’ve been playing recently, where she very obviously nudges him in the direction of confessing to Michael, and he pretends very hard not to notice. Annabelle is definitely getting a kick out of the whole thing.

“I’ll see you on Friday, Martin. And tell Michael to visit me beforehand, their usual dress is too atrocious for something like this.” she calls after him, and he bites down a laugh. He’s vaguely aware that Michael has a bad habit of mixing as many patterns as physically possible at once, the brighter the better, but love’s got him wearing rose-colored glasses on that one. Or, rainbow-colored glasses, considering their usual color palette. 

The Autumn Festival arrives on the perfect night, the air cool and fresh, a promise of the cold to come but pleasant with an extra layer or two. Martin stands in front of his mirror, trying to decide what extra layers he should wear. He considers some of the fancier stuff he has left over from Elias’ highly-protested dress code for Institute events but decides against them. None of the people he’s seen in town seem quite that fancy, except the nobles packed in around the far edge, but he’s not sure if they’ll even be getting those nice clothes dirty with an event like this. Instead, he chooses a nicer sweater in faded yellow, neat but casual. At least, he hopes so. Martin’s pretty sure that he’s making things a big deal for no reason, but he wants tonight to be important. 

He lights the light the second sunset begins, careful of his “nice” clothes, so he’ll have plenty of time at the festival before he has to check on it again. 

As he shuts the door of his cottage, he imagines that the breeze blowing over him carries the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, wafting over from the bright lights on the distant shore. Michael waits for him at the dock, their tall figure standing out easily from the mist and waves, and excitement courses through him. Martin barely resists the urge to run down the path, at least until he’s halfway there, at which point he gives up entirely and takes off. The way his breath catches, though, is much more their fault than the running.

Michael looks  _ really _ nice. They wear a frilled sort of button-up in maroon, a leaf-patterned scarf draped elegantly around their neck. It’s much more subdued than what they usually wear, but still Michael, and different enough from what Martin’s used to that he’s not even remotely prepared to handle it. There’s a too-long moment of silence before he realizes that he’s staring at where the v-neck collar of the shirt dips down to their sternum instead of talking.

“Um! Annabelle did a good job. You look great,” Martin manages, which is an okay start, but then he just. Keeps going. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look good all of the time, but the—that’s a good color on you. I like the ruffles. Yeah. Um.” He resists the incredible urge to make a face at himself. Michael just blinks, looking down at their clothes like they hadn’t really considered them at all.

“Thank you. You believe I look good all of the time?” They raise an eyebrow, clearly teasing, and whoops. It’s not even reasonably cold enough for him to blame his blush on the chill.

“We should get going, don’t want to miss the festival or anything!” Martin announces instead of facing the situation head-on, climbing into the boat and beginning to paddle his way across. 

The village really is lit brighter than normal, orange-tinted lanterns hung from high poles all around, between the houses and strung between the rooftops, painting everything with soft autumn light. There’s a blazing bonfire in the center of the town square, spitting out sparks, a cheery warmth, and the rich smell of cedar wood. Small, hand-painted lanterns hang from windows, make-shift archways hang heavy with colorful corn over the cobbled streets, and weird-shaped squash is piled all around the square. There’s stands selling hot drinks and apple pies around the outside and small games for children where there’s enough room.

Walking through the space makes the town feel like a tiny bubble of warmth, just people and light and laughter pushing against the growing darkcold of winter that presses in from all sides. 

Martin finds himself at the edge of the bonfire, hands out towards its heat as he watches the shifting, rolling movement. It’s only just starting to get dark, but it’s bright enough to make his eyes burn a little anyways. The heat presses against his face and the skin of his palms, growing steadily. As he stares, Martin finds dozens of tiny shapes buried in the center of the flame, burning up in seconds, and he realizes that the people all around are throwing small strips of paper into the fire. Curious, he follows the people back to a stand over to the right, the counter lined with bottles of ink, quills, and thin strips of that thin paper in an array of light colors. 

“Oh, you’re not from here, right?” The person behind the counter asks when he wanders over to investigate, Michael trailing after him. Martin nods, sheepish, but they seem more excited to help than anything. “Since it’s the end of the growing and harvesting for the season, everyone’s able to see what they accomplished this year and think about the next. And, because of all the crops and goods we’ve been able to provide, we have a bit of extra luck. That in mind, we write down a wish for the future, however near or far, and burn the it so it’s out in the world, not just in here.” They thump themselves enthusiastically on the chest for emphasis, and he pays the meager amount for two slips of colored paper, thanking them. 

Figuring out what he wants to write on it, though, isn’t so easy. There’s a lot in the world to wish for, even when he has so much already. Martin knows he would’ve wished for friends, once. Would’ve wished for his mother to get better, which was really wishing that she would love him. Would’ve wished to be happy. Now, though, he either has those things or has stopped caring, just enough. Even the threat hanging heavily over him, ready to take all of that away, doesn’t seem right. Part of Martin is certain that he’s going to have to rely on himself, as ironic as that is. No, he knows what he wants to let the smoke carry up into the sky.

He writes: _ I wish for Michael to stay with me. _

It’s something he wants desperately, but doesn’t feel like too much. Wishing for them to love him wouldn’t really feel fair, somehow, and he really does treasure what they have.

Curling his hand as tightly around the paper as he can, like the secret will crawl out from any gap between his fingers, Martin walks to the bonfire and lets it drift into the flame. It catches instantly. The paper burns quickly, the fire working its way into the center and leaving behind thin back ash and curls of smoke in its wake, chasing each other into the starry sky above. He watches it curl until he feels Michael at his side, turning to face them. 

“What did you wish for?” They ask, eyes keen and curious, and Martin just shakes his head.

“I can’t tell you or it won’t come true,” he explains, the childish idea still lodged fully in his heart. Better not to risk it. 

“Oh? Is that how this works? What a strange requirement.”

“Yep, those’re the rules.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning. “So, what did you wish for, then?” That gets Michael to smile, too, all teeth. 

“I won’t say. I heard somewhere that, if I do, my wish won’t come true.” They joke. Then, their tone shifts from playful to something more thoughtful. “And I wish dearly for it to come true.” The words are earnest and cloying, heavy with meaning, though Michael’s gaze against his is even heavier. Martin wonders if the two of them had started off standing this close, close enough that, if he wanted, he could almost lean up and pull Michael into a kiss, and he does  _ want _ — 

Martin coughs into his elbow, loud and jarring, effectively shattering the moment. Michael just offers a small smile, stepping away to get him something to drink. He’s left reeling on his feet, the fire suddenly way too hot to be standing next to. His reservations on Michael not being made for or interested in romance are crumbling beneath him, unless it’s just his own hopes carrying him away. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that they were just about to kiss.  _ Does _ he know better?

His heart doesn’t, still pounding at twenty miles an hour against his ribs. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Annabelle notes, already next to him, and Martin jumps, cursing. She offers a smile that’s more knowing than her usual smiles, which are always knowing. “Having a good time?”

“Oh, yeah. This is so nice, we don’t have anything like this in the bigger cities, but we should!” Martin chooses to ignore her tone. “What about you? I didn’t think this would really be your thing. Thought you’d be somewhere quiet, planning or plotting or, hey, even conniving.”

“Normally, I would be. I’m here for a spectacle. Oh, hello, Michael. I’ll leave you two to it.” She leaves as suddenly as she arrives, nudging him with a spindly elbow as she walks by, and he shoots her a half-hearted glare. 

Michael blinks after her, offering him a large cup of steaming hot cider which Martin takes with grateful hands. It’s wonderfully sweet and spiced against his tongue, warming him from the inside out, and he sighs contentedly.

The fire is too warm by then (at least for Martin, who temperature applies to) so they move to the less busy streets. They sit on a bench made out of stacked hay, sheltered by a small circle of lanterns above that cast warped shadows, both of them just watching the moment unfold for a long while. One of them will point something out once in awhile, murmuring softly over the gentle wind in the trees and the nightlaughter, but mostly they just sit, side by side, in the quiet. Michael’s bony knee is pressed up against his thigh and his elbow is nudged against their side, but neither of them bother with moving. 

At least, not until the music starts in earnest. There’s been bits and pieces of it all night, muddled as it floats through the air, but this is more solid, a complete, thrumming song that takes up what feels like the entire town. It’s a friendly sound, invigorating, and he’s reminded for a moment of the stories of faery songs he read as a kid. 

This music, though, is fully human, but just as enchanting. The source of it is the center of the garden. A little band fills a makeshift stand at the back, playing beautifully and hopping around to the tune themselves. Through the area, people dance in all the ways imaginable, moved by the night and its music. Towards the center, a group of maybe forty townsfolk are doing a dance together, shifting between lines and moving together in constantly-changing pairs. All around them are couples moving together, dancing with clasped hands in some of the fancier styles he’s seen but not attempted, simply next to each other, or close enough together that he feels justified in raising an eyebrow. There’s plenty of groups of friends and families around the edges, too, everyone gathering in towards the noise. Old couples waltz hand-in-hand, while young children flail and laugh to the music.

“Do you want to dance?” Michael asks, head tilted to the side and face unreadable as they stare out at the crowd.

“Ehhh, kind of? But I’m really not any good at it, I don’t know any actual dances.” He definitely doesn’t know how to waltz, and even the more casual dance in the center of the field seems too complex. But there’s music in the air and light all around and just standing still doesn’t feel right. 

“Perfect. That means we’re evenly matched.” Michael steps forward, turning back to face him and offering one hand, just as they did that first night at the top of the lighthouse. And, like then, Martin takes their hand in his own. They step together out into the dark.

They wind up both and neither leading, one hand on the other’s waist and one on their shoulder, just moving together to the music. It’s a cautious thing at first, neither of them pulling, barely swaying, but Martin lets himself settle into it. The music picks up, ecstatic and humming and bright, and they change with it. They spin together through the crowd, dizzying and more than a little uncoordinated and absolutely wonderful. It’s very apparent that neither of them was being humble about not knowing how to dance, but it doesn’t matter. Martin raises one hand, making an archway with their arms, laughing as Michael twists underneath it, ignoring how bones are supposed to work. They pull apart except for one set of clasped hands for a moment, and then Michael pulls him back in. He follows, both of them clumsy, until they’re nearly chest-to-chest for a second. The two of them spin, and stomp, and just  _ move _ , clinging to each other like they’ll be thrown apart otherwise. 

Song after song passes and still they dance, pulled by the music and each other, until Martin stumbles, breathless from laughter and excitement, backwards under a canopy of late vines, leaves tinged a deep red. When he catches his breath, Michael is watching him with such open adoration that he just loses it again. Their hair forms a messy halo around their head, a few strands hanging down in front of their face. Their scarf is mostly untucked, hanging loose in the wind, chest pretending to heave with breath and eyes bright. Their mouth is a crooked smile, just for him.

“I love you,” Martin whispers, because some things are simply so true that they must be said. So true that to not say them is to choke. So true that they have already been said, in a thousand ways other than words. Michael’s crooked smile grows, and Martin is not even a little bit afraid. 

“I love you too, Martin. My Martin.” They raise a hand and cup his cheek, thumb rubbing across his lip, and he sinks into the touch, leaning forward.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” He asks, eyes halfway closed already. Michael answers by closing the gap between them, and the press of their lips against his is electricshock wonderful, full of gentle static. It’s just a moment, not nearly enough, before they pull back, resting their forehead against his. It’s almost overwhelming, to have this between them after so long of wanting, Michael’s eyes full of love and the touch of their lips still fresh against his own. He wants more. He wants everything.

Martin leans forward and they kiss again, and again, and again. At first, it’s just small, close-mouthed kisses, getting used to being in each others’ space in this way. Then Michael’s fingers find their way into his hair, tugging softly, and he opens his mouth with a sigh. They press in eagerly, deepening the kiss, and Martin wraps his arms loosely around the back of their neck, feeling the soft static of their nape under his fingertips. There’s a constant buzz in kissing Michael, filling his mouth with the heady press of their tongue, but it’s  _ them _ , and he loves it for that. It’s intoxicating and nearly overwhelming, to be this close. He lets Michael back him up under the canopy, feeling his back press up against a mass of vines. They kiss him deeply, fingers gently petting through his hair, until Martin’s genuinely out of breath.

“Michael,” he sighs as he pulls away. “Some of us actually need to breathe, remember?” He sort of wishes he didn’t, only if it meant he could spend more time kissing them.

“Apologies.” They nod in understanding, and, taking it to heart, press their lips to his cheek instead. Martin giggles under the feather-light touch, feeling them smile against him. They peck all across his cheek, but his laughter cuts off into a gasp when their mouth finds his neck. Michael’s kisses turn open-mouthed, and he can hardly breathe as they suck a mark into his skin, making a high noise and tangling his hands in their hair. They aren’t deterred, tongue laving across his skin in a burst of sensation, moving upwards. 

“Martin,” Michael asks, voice laden with desire against his skin, and fire shoots through him. “What would you like?” Their teeth nip at the lobe of his ear, just barely tugging and Martin has to put a hand over his mouth to push back a moan. The answer to that question is obvious. But they’re still very much in public, tucked away in the shadows or not, and everything else in the world comes crashing back in. 

“I’d like to get back to the cottage, and… we can work it out from there.” Michael nods, and they pull back. Martin wants to protest his own suggestion, resisting the urge to follow after and kiss them again, but some sacrifices must be made. To make up for it, he takes their heavy hand in his own, squeezing, and leads them out from under the cover of the vines and towards the path. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Annabelle on the edge of the field, perched on an ordinary garden chair as though it’s a throne. She’s got a knowing look on her face and, when they make eye contact, she gives him a thumbs-up, which is about the last thing he’d expected but still appreciated. Martin just waves, in too much of a hurry to stop and chat. 

Despite their rush, they just can’t seem to stop kissing, and he ends up planting more kisses against Michael’s chin or the corner of their mouth than anything else as they stumble along. He can’t quite manage to stop smiling, either.

“Shit, I’ve still got to give the light a check-over,” he sighs, more exasperated than anything. There might be nothing in the world Martin wants more than to just keep kissing Michael, especially in the privacy of his own home, but that’s not an excuse to put lives at risk. Just because he feels like he’ll die if he waits any longer doesn’t mean he actually will. 

So when Michael steers them into an empty alleyway, he’s going to protest until he sees the door.

“It’ll be faster this way, if you like. I’m not opposed to the boat,” they explain, leaving it up to him. Martin’s well aware of what’s behind the door now and how easy it is to get trapped.

“I won’t get lost?” Martin asks, though he knows the answer already.

“No. Not with me at your side,” Michael promises, and he takes their offered hand in one of his own again, opening the door with his other. 

The hallways change as they pass through, the paintings all around no longer the same walls but dizzying flashes of color and shapes, twisting and changing fast enough to make his head pound. The patterns bleed out from the walls and through the air around him, the floor shifting and writhing, the air itself humming against him. He shuts his eyes against it and lets Michael guide him, feeling blood trickle from his noise and his head buzz.

But even through the slight pain, it doesn’t even occur to Martin to be afraid. Instead, he thinks, in the part of his mind that isn’t busy shutting out everything but the hand in his own, that this is Michael. All of it, the sharp edges and gentle touches, are Michael, and he loves them so completely that it almost hurts.

Martin stumbles out into the lantern room, the usual brightness of the light almost dark after where he’s been. He collapses to his knees, breathing hard, a little dizzy but unharmed. Michael follows him down, a hand on either side of his face, eyebrows crinkled dowards, colors popping around their head in concern.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay? Martin? I’m sorry—I wasn’t expecting that I’d become so. Rattled, by this.” They tilt his head back and forth gently, as though looking for damage, but Martin really just wants them to kiss him again. 

“I’m fine, I promise. Hold on, that was because of me?” He’s flattered in a way he’s not really equipped for, emotionally. He’s the reason for such an extreme change to the hallways themselves?

“Of course, Martin. Of course. My feelings aren’t really built for words, but I think ‘I love you’ is a good try,” they murmur, relieved, and he has to give himself another minute just to recover from how hard his heart aches. 

“Well, in that case. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…” Martin repeats the truth over and over again, meaning it more every time, kissing Michael’s cheek, their neck, their forehead, the knuckles of one hand and then the other, everywhere he can reach. They make a bright chirp of surprise, then settle into a lighter purr than before, beaming as they’re both bathed in the spinning light. 

They’re at the light for a reason, though, and once he’s sure they’ve gotten the point, he forces himself to stand and crank the mechanism for the lighthouse as fast as humanly possible while still doing it properly. To get back the cottage, at least, they take the stairs. 

It doesn’t quite feel real, not yet, that he can have this in his life, he thinks, pausing to wipe off the drying trail of blood from his nose. 

But Michael’s mouth against his is real, and the press of their body against his, up against his bedroom door, and their hands, slowly climbing higher and higher on the backs of his thighs, kneading at him. Their touch leaves him shivering against them, letting his head fall back with a sigh. Michael takes the invitation to return to his neck, pressing light kisses to the base of his throat, still humming slightly.

This time, after sucking another mark or three into his skin, he feels the tiniest hint of something sharp, their fangs barely grazing against his skin. When he glances down, they’re watching him carefully, looking for any sign of discomfort. 

“Please,” he whispers instead, face hot at the admission and at what he’s asking for. But Martin wants the marks to last, and he knows that Michael won’t hurt him. And they don’t, nipping light marks down his throat, sharp teeth digging into the skin but not breaking, seeming more than happy to focus all their attention there for the foreseeable future. He’s not quite that patient, though, letting his hips rock forward, mostly hard already. Michael makes a noise against his throat, something both curious and pleased, and presses their leg up between his thighs, making him moan. 

Martin lets his hands fall to their waist, wanting desperately to touch them. His fingers find the loose hem of their shirt, splaying across the flat plain of their stomach. He traces across their skin and up across their shoulder blades, digging his fingers in slightly and listening to them keen. They’re locked there for a few moments, just pressed up against each other. Michael’s teeth leave one more mark, sinking into the skin of his collarbone, and he whimpers a little as they pull back. 

“What would you like?” Michael asks again, serious, but it’s sort of hard for Martin to focus when their fingers are still moving across the backs of his thighs, digging in softly, barely sharp. When he does, in fact, process the question, it’s not without some anxiety.

“Uh, I’m okay with—what do you want? That’s good, for me,” he answers by reflex more than anything. And it is, probably. But Michael doesn’t seem to buy it, letting their forehead fall against his again, eyes sharp.

“You.” And that’s completely unfair, both because of how hot it is and because he’s the only one allowed to dodge the question. Well, if they won’t choose for him.

“Fuck me, please?” He breathes, resisting the urge to add on a healthy amount of only-if-you-wants, watching as Michael’s eyes darken, something like a growl low in their throat, and he shivers.

“Of course, dearest one.”

Martin resists the urge to pull them back towards him when they disentangle to actually get into his room, instead opting to pull off his sweater and the button up beneath it as he moves to the bed. The air of his bedroom is chilled when it feels like he’s burning up. Martin stands at the edge of the bed, hands starting to work on his belt, but he doesn’t quite get the chance. He only just manages to look up and see the playful look in their eyes before Michael pounces on him, hands on his shoulders, throwing them both down onto the mattress with an  _ oomf _ . Martin laughs in surprise as his back hits the bed, fond.

“Woah, at least I’m not the only one who’s eager,” he teases, Michael seeming entirely unembarrassed above him. “Just don’t give me a concussion, please, I think that would kill the mood.” That gets a laugh, shaking through the air between them, and he gets another wave of love through his chest. Their hands are still wrapped around his shoulders, pinning him gently, knees on either side of his hips. Michael’s stripped down to just their underwear (which he would be, too, if they hadn’t been so impatient), and he’s struck breathless. They’re all sharp edges and odd angles, a lot more gangly than a human and not quite the right proportions, and he love loves loves loveslovesloves them. 

Martin interrupts their trail of laughter, pulling them down into a kiss, and they hum in happy surprise against him. He lets his tongue graze against the points of their fangs, little bursts of static running through his mouth, and he can’t help a small noise. Michael’s bent at an odd angle, but that doesn’t stop their hands from wandering in the slightest. Martin gasps when he feels them thumb across his nipple, pulling away from the kiss to press a fist against his mouth. 

“Oh! You’re very sensitive here, hmm?” They tease, not waiting for an answer before pinching at him. All Martin can do is writhe, pushing his chest up into the touch. Part of him wants to be embarrassed, reminding him that he should at least try and not look so desperate, but he tells that part to fuck off, he’s busy enjoying himself. Or, enjoying Michael. 

They shift backwards, but, before he can complain, they’re kissing their way down his throat once more, light enough to tickle. That’s probably for the best; parts of his skin are a little bruised and tender already, and they’re very enthusiastic. Instead, their mouth finds his chest, and he keens as their lips wrap around his nipple, tongue laving, slow, around it. He’s so hard it almost hurts, cock pressing against the fabric of his nice trousers, and Martin can do nothing but thrust upwards helplessly under their attention, sucking at him eagerly while one hand pinches the other nipple. 

“Michael, Michael, please,” he whimpers, almost shaking. They relent, pulling back, gaze achingly heavy against his face and a bit of drool hanging from their swollen lips, fangs twisted into a lazy smile. Martin takes a second to catch his breath, hands pressed over his face at their reedy chuckle. 

“That’s… that’s really not fair, I’ve decided,” he manages, scooting up into a sitting position so he can undress fully. 

“What’s not fair?” Michael sounds like they actually don’t know, their eyes trained on his hands as he pulls off his underwear after his trousers. Martin’s not sure if he’s physically capable of blushing anymore than he already is, but his face is certainly trying. 

He just… waves a hand in their direction, gesturing to all of them as an answer, and they blink.

“Well, I’m not a very fair thing. Would you like me to try?” 

Martin just laughs, shaking his head, fond of their sincerity. “No, this is, this is _ really _ good. But that’s sweet.” They beam at him, looking a little confused but content all the same. Martin leans up, tugging at their underwear in turn, feeling their legs beneath the tips of his fingers, buzzing slightly. They kneel in front of him, long cock arching up against the base of their stomach, and oh, Martin really,  _ really _ wants to taste them. The only thing he wants more is to feel them inside him, but next time, maybe. He takes a second to remember that there will be a next time, that he gets to have this, because Michael loves him, too. It’s going to take a bit to get used to that. 

In the meantime, he scrambles around in his bedside table for the oil he keeps there, finding the vial without too much trouble. It’s cool against his fingers as he slicks them up, and anticipation twists in his abdomen; it’s been a bit since he’s gotten anything inside him, much less with anyone else. 

He settles himself up against the headboard, legs splayed wide, feeling deliciously exposed as he circles his finger around his entrance, pressing inside with a sigh. He adds a second finger quickly, moaning as he crooks them inside himself. Martin only realizes his eyes have fallen closed at the sensation when he feels Michael above him instead of seeing them. They’ve crawled up the bed to hover over him, watching where he’s fucking himself intently.

“May I?” They ask, tone revarant, and he nods without hesitation. Michael’s fingers are decidedly less sharp than usual, and he pours more of the oil onto his own, taking their fingers between his own, slicking them up slowly in the lamplight. 

Their touch is slow and careful as they press two fingers inside of him, and Martin whimpers, thighs tensing up and toes curling at the pressure. He love this, loves the press of feeling full. Michael’s fingers are thinner than his own but they’re  _ long _ , and without even getting two knuckles deep, they’re deeper inside him than he’s ever managed on his own. He twists, trying to push down and get them deeper even as it threatens to be too much, breathy little noises spilling out of him as Michael fucks him with their fingers, watching him with open wonder. It would be so easy to come like this, so Martin pushes lightly at their shoulder.

“‘M ready. Uh, should I flip over, or?” He manages, trying to focus on figuring out what will be easiest while their fingers are pulling out of him slowly.

“I want to be able to kiss you, please,” Michael murmurs, looking at him so softly.

“Yeah, that sounds good!” His voice has gone all high from how touched he is. 

Martin takes Michael’s cock in his hand, slicking them up. They hiss above him, eyes squeezed closed in pleasure, pushing further into his palm. He takes his time, maybe more than is necessary when he’s enjoying it this much, until they push his hand away lightly.

Martin lays back, lifting his hips up as Michael shifts above him, arms braced on either side of his head, the tip of their cock pressing lightly against his hole. They push in slowly, watching him carefully for any sign of pain, and all the breath pushes out of his chest with the slow pressure of them inside him. Finally, finally, they slide all the way in, hips flush against him, one hand angling him up slightly. 

He takes a second, taking deep breaths and staring up at the ceiling, getting used to the feeling, so deep inside of him when it’s been awhile. Michael shifts slightly, not thrusting yet, just adjusting so that they can lean down and kiss him. Martin kisses back happily, letting his eyes close for a moment. 

“I love you,” Michael whispers against his lips, the only sound in the room, and he feels like he could cry. 

“I love you, too,” he answers, meaning it more than anything in the whole world. Then, because he might actually start crying and is pretty sure that’ll dampen the mood, he says. “Okay, I think I’m good.”

Michael nods, pulling out of him most of the way before pushing back in. They fuck him slow and deep at first, and it’s better than anything Martin’s dreamed of. His hands twist in the bedsheets, sparks of pleasure chasing their way up his spine, his cock rubbing up against Michael’s stomach in time with their thrusts. They move together easily, languid. When he lets his eyes fall open, the room around him has gone strange, his walls dancing with colors he’s never seen before, everything a bit hazy except for them. It’s intoxicating, to know that this is what he does to Michael.

Eventually, he feels one big, big hand wrap around the softness of his thigh, and Michael lifts his leg until it’s resting over their shoulder, looking at him to see if it’s okay. In answer, Martin lifts his other leg as well, and it’s a bit of a stretch, but they slide even deeper into him and Martin keens. Michael growls above him, teeth twisted into a snarl, their thrusts picking up, and he knows it’s good for them, too. 

At that angle, every push rubs up against his prostate, and he cries out at the bright sparks of pleasure, heat pooling through his belly and hands gripping their shoulder. 

“Oh, oh,  _ Michael _ . Please, please, please,” Martin moans out, gasping every time they push into him, not even sure what he’s asking for. Still, they oblige, pushing into him faster, rougher, hands digging into his sides. Martin feels his orgasm building within him, feeling their cock push into him again and again, pounding into him until he’s whining. He manages to stutter out a warning before he comes, vision going white as his thighs tense and he throws his head back. 

Michael leans forward, letting him hold them, whispering words he’s too gone to understand in his ear, fucking him through it. Their thrusts become messier, and he tries to tighten around them, still lost in pleasure as Michael comes inside of him, a pretty noise high in their throat. 

They collapse against him for a moment, the weight comforting as Martin catches his breath. He wraps his arms around them, holding them tight, and they press kiss after kiss to his cheek. They only let him go long enough to pull out and rearrange so they’re both under the covers, settling down next to him. Before he has time to worry about the mess, it’s gone, though the marks across his neck and chest remain.

Michael nuzzles their face into the crook of his neck happily, rumbling again, and he laughs softly. Martin lets himself drift off, exhausted but entirely content. 

* * *

Martin wakes slowly. He’s first aware of a gentle buzzing beneath his face and nuzzles in towards it, rubbing his face into Michael’s shoulder as he comes to. He’s sprawled halfway on top of them, one arm curled over their chest and their legs tangled together. Michael’s holding him, their arms and hands wrapped snugly around his torso, pulling him closer, and they’re still purring. Their ribs(?) are vibrating beneath his cheek in slow waves as he blinks his eyes open, and it lulls him. 

“You’re still purring?” He mumbles, wondering if they’ve been at it all night, snuggling in impossibly closer.

“I am very happy.” They give him a soft smile, the noise picking up. “And. It is a romantic gesture, I believe.”

“Mmp.” Martin agrees, closing his eyes for a moment and kissing their shoulder lightly. Then his head shoots back up. “Wait, so in the hallway when everyone was here, that was…?”

They nod, looking a little embarrassed, which makes Martin’s heart skip a beat. “Yes. I thought I was really being very apparent, but these things elude me. Why are you laughing?”

Martin does his best to stop laughing with little success, eventually managing it over their confused expression. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just, everyone always says  _ I’m _ super obvious when I get feelings. I can’t believe it took us this long.” That gets a laugh from them, too. “Also, to be fair, nobody’s ever given me a manual on monster romance, so I’m going in blind.”

“Funny, I don’t think I ever got a copy either. We’ll just have to figure out,” they chuckle, and he takes their jagged hand, brushing his lips against the palm and grinning up at them. He has a hunch that they’ll do just fine, manual or not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yee haw!!!! FINALLY these two got together!!!! Ik this chapter was a little long, so hopefully it was still enjoyable. Only one more to go :'^). Also, this is my first time writing smut as part of a larger fic, so hopefully it's still good while also feeling natural and satisfying??? 
> 
> Comments are as super-duper appreciated as always!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood, minor violence, threat of drowning, falling.
> 
> You didn't think everything would be just fine and dandy with a whole chapter left, did you? >:^)
> 
> (Also, google "tarantula paws", I promise you won't regret it)

Obviously, Martin writes back to the archives to tell his friends they were right all along. He writes about the joy of the festival and the kiss and their week since, the time it’s taken him to be sure it’s not just a dream. It’s really, _really_ nice, to wake up in the mornings slowly, with their arms wrapped around him and their face buried in his hair, or to be able to kiss them whenever he wants, even to just let their knees bump together underneath the table. He also can’t quite seem to make himself stop saying “I love you,” way too much, but the words never wear out, never matter any less no matter how many times he says them. Instead, they just keep growing. 

If he’d thought Michael was very physically affectionate before, well, he’d had no idea. They build a new little language between them. Martin gets just as used to bumping their foreheads together lightly in greeting as he does to squeezing hands or a quick kiss on the cheek, and he figures out just how much Michael likes their hair being played with, braiding it or just running his fingers through the static curls when they settle down for the evening. Once, he tries to reciprocate their purring ritual. Clumsily and feeling more than a little awkward, he presses his face up against theirs, rubbing slightly as he feels them still in surprise. There’s literally no way he’s physically capable of purring and he kind of just feels like he’s doing it wrong somehow, but Martin tries anyway because he knows what it means for them.

Before he can finish, though, they pull him in and kiss him breathless, leaving him dazed. If he were something like what they are, Martin thinks, he’d have little hearts floating around his head.

“Does that mean I actually did that right?” He asks when his brain starts working again, and their fond smile widens.

“Mm, I think the phrase is… ‘it’s the thought that counts’.” They chuckle.

“So… that’s a no, then?” 

“Well. Almost, but… thank you, Martin. I… thank you.” Michael repeats, voice heavy with earnesty, and he feels his heart tug. He counts it as a success, regardless of technicalities. 

And, with them at his side in this new way, the life they’ve made continues. It’s long nights and cleaning and carrying and more work all the time, and maybe not every single part is good, but it’s all _his_. The greenhouse is full of real plants, now, true leaves and growing vines, the first marks of what they’ll become, and some of Michael’s flowers (with the advantage of being stolen, already growing, from someone else’s garden) are blooming from their baskets in the ceiling, filling the small space with sweet smell of nectar. 

The letter he gets back from the archives a few days later is exactly as enthusiastic as he expected, which is to say very. He starts keeping it tucked into a his jacket pocket, just feeling the edges of it every once in awhile to make sure it’s still there, because he can. It reads:

_Dear Martin,_

_Holy shit!!!!! What did we tell you? What did all of us collectively tell you? That Michael definitely felt the same, and guess what? We were right. Alright, now that that’s out of my system, congratulations! Just had to say ‘I told you so’ first, because I very much did. I kid you not, Tim is digging through everything right now because he apparently stashed some wine in the archives and we need to celebrate, I guess. Jon had no idea it was there, but hey, he’s not actually stopping us…_

The letter continues on, full of congratulations and well-wishes from all three of them, news of the archives and all their lives’, and of course the little, poorly-done doodles he treasures so much. It’s just, so much of his friends throughout, and worth everything for it. He hurries to write back, knowing they want to hear from him, too. 

* * *

Martin plucks Penny up from where she’s using her tiny little tarantula paws to tug on his pants leg, letting her settle into the pocket of his good coat; it’s started to get cold for real now, the deep cold of the oncoming winter rolling in over the sea, but she’ll be warm enough there. Taking Michael’s hand in his own, squeezing gently, he nudges open the door and leads them out into the chilled air. 

They wander around the island for a bit, enjoying the thin sun. They’re walking close enough to be kind of just bumping into each other, which isn’t very practical, but it’s not like they’re in any hurry. The afternoon stretches out before them, and the smell of the ocean surrounds everything, and he runs his thumb over the back of their hand, feeling the ridges. Then he takes another step and their hand tugs at his, their arm drawn taut as he moves forward and they, they do not.

Michael makes a horribly, high, _wet_ sound, and then their fingers are spasming in his own, pain shooting through his hand as they cut through the skin.

Everything happens very quick and very slow. He turns, feeling how their hand has gone limp even as blood rushes from the shallow slices across his own palm, and finds Michael spitting something like blood. Colorful and glowing, it trails down, slow, from the edge of a mouth open in surprise, from around the edges of wide, scared eyes. The harpoon through their chest gleams red and silver in the afternoon sunlight. The gnarled, wicked barbs of it reach out, spiking out into a swirling mass of colors where insides should be. On the wall of the lighthouse, there is not a door. There _should_ be a door, Martin can see the flickering of its outline, faint splashes of yellow, but it cannot quite manage to be. 

Michael coughs, something ragged, something stuffed full with blood and colors, and they squeeze his hand once.

The wire in the back of the harpoon draws tight, and all at once they’re dragged away from him, tugged backwards across the rocks and sand in a tangle of limbs, hands scrabbling, reaching for nothing, and they disappear into the unforgiving sea. The surface of the water stills instantly, no sign that anything had ever disturbed it except that Michael is gone. Only Martin’s rough breathing breaks the silence. 

And the ocean is rising. Through the panic, the lack of understanding, the fear, he can see the waves growing to lap at the high cliffs that mark the edge of the island. On shaking legs, Martin turns and pushes through the real door-the _only_ door-into the lighthouse. 

He gives himself a moment to collapse against the wall, heaving in ragged breaths, trying to understand what’s happening as his whole body shakes. But he only gives himself a moment. 

Martin takes three deep breaths and thinks. Peter Lukas has decided to interfere, that much is obvious from the cold and the deep aching in his chest. He doesn’t have much time. The water will keep rising; it’s seeping in through the crack under the door already, staining the skin of his lower back with ice, and it will eat him. Martin thinks that he was lucky to choose the lighthouse and not his cottage, and, for a moment, his shaking turns into strung-out, delirious laughter. 

There is a foot of water already when he manages to stand, only a moment later, the blood from his hand trailing off into it in thick, coiling clouds like fog, his palm burning from the salt. He stumbles, once, on his way to the steps, and the sea reaches up to his elbows when he falls and braces his hands against the floor, lapping up against his face, and Penny shifts in his pocket. Feeling her, he stands, moving again. 

Martin takes the first step up the staircase and it’s as though the water realizes that he has somewhere else to go, reaching up at him even faster than before. He clings to the rail and climbs. Falling now will kill him. Instead, he takes solid, careful steps, ignoring the waves that lap around his ankles, circling higher and higher as the water chases him. It fills the entire space, dark enough to block out the floor below, and it swells with vicious hunger.

When he reaches the top of the staircase after an eternity of nothing, his hands are shaking too badly to open the lock. Is it the cold of the water? The race against the flood? The sight of the one he loves disappearing, hurt or locked away or? 

Or.

It doesn’t really matter, though. He’s shaking and his hands are wet and sliding uselessly against the latch of the trapdoor that leads to survival, and there is very little air left on this side. Water laps at his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Penny scampers up from his pocket to the top of his head to avoid it, and Martin still can’t open the hatch. He tastes salt, holds his breath, shuts his eyes.

It’s blind that he finally manages it, crawling desperately up and into what little space there is in the storage room, boxes of oil and clean cloth packed in tightly around him as he coughs and Penny returns to his shoulder. But the water doesn’t stop and Martin doesn’t either, climbing up into the lantern room and out onto the balcony, and only then does the water pull back, leaving only the top of the lighthouse to him. It claims everything else, instead. His back pressed up against the cold stone of all that’s left, Martin stares out, full of dull horror at what’s before him.

There’s nothing but water. The ocean has swallowed a planet whole and coughed him back up. He is the sole witness to nothing at all. No matter which way he turns, there is only the sea, darker than the one he’s grown to love and deadly still. Behind him, Martin finds no village at all, not the roads behind it, and not the distant mountains. The cafe where he’d sat with Tim and Sasha, Annabelle’s cozy little shop, the field that had been full of little stalls and music, and all the people, all the lives, are all submerged. The archives, too, must be lost beneath the surface, his friends with it, every stranger who’s ever smiled at him, his mother. Martin looks down and watches the last of his belongings, books and teacups and little trinkets disturbed by the flood, bob on the surface then sink, one by one, to the empty beneath. 

Michael is down there with them, if they are anywhere at all. 

There’s nobody else left in the world. Only him, trapped at the top of a lighthouse with no ships to guide and nothing left. There is a tug of emptiness in his chest, a deep pit just to the right of his heart. 

Desperately, Martin tries to keep his head, grappling with both desperate hands. It’s only a trick, an illusion, a mirage. There must be people for the monsters to feed on, at least, he just can’t see them. He can’t quite catch his breath, though, not looking out at that blank expanse of water. He shuts his eyes.

Peter Lukas’ presence is no different than being alone, really. Opening his eyes to find a person there makes no difference; he feels exactly the same as before. There’s nothing at all behind the man, nothing filling him out. 

“So, you made it this far. Can’t say I wasn’t hoping for this, just a little. I wanted a chance to—” 

“Gloat?” Martin spits, and the man’s expression remains passive. His tone is only conversational, as though they’re friends. It makes him terribly angry. 

“I was _going_ to say talk things out, but if that’s how you want to see things… This is quite the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Or, gotten everyone else into.” He waves a non committal hand to the water on all sides, as though it’s a small annoyance at worst. He wants to yell, to say that it’s his fault, not Martin’s, but there’s no sound left in him at all. His mouth moves, forming the words, but nothing comes out. He just feels tired. Still, Peter just keeps going as though he’d responded.

“Is it _really_ my fault, though? I mean, I like to think that I’m a bit more… opportunistic than all that. It’s not my fault that you’re alone. If anything, it’s Michael’s. If they hadn’t stuck their nose where it shouldn’t have been, you’d have a lot less to lose. I mean, it took a month and a half for you to almost give in before that. None of that was my doing, you know.” 

Martin pauses, pushing down his anger with both hands, and considers it. Peter might be talking casually, might still be wearing that stupid, meaningless smile, but his body is tense, eyes trained keen on Martin. He did choose to not write any letters, chose not to go into town, chose to stay by himself. He recognizes that same crushing chill he feels now in himself back then. The kind that never really warms all the way. 

“And you were so desperate you chose to let a monster into your house just for a little company, honestly. That was all you, too. You really fell for the first person to pretend to be kind to you, that’s really… something else. You could even say it’s pathetic. I wouldn’t, but you _could_.” His face is an empty grimace. Blank teeth and blank eyes and a blank man. 

He balls his hands into fists. Maybe he was desperate. Martin might not like to consider it, but he thinks he learned how to chase after love, or anything resembling it, at the same time he learned to tie his shoes, to do the dishes, to get his mother to take her medicine. And he’s had plenty of time to practice in the time since, watching the relationships he’s had crumble with time or distance or just him, watching the ease with which everyone but him talks, watching Jon not want him back. It wouldn’t a surprise, if he got desperate.

He clings to the thought, to all the tiny little disappointments, the years spent by himself, the little house surrounded by storms where he never saw the ocean. Martin knows, distantly, that his body has gone cold, but it’s not alarming, just numb.

He crumples to his knees, vision trained on the ocean where it meets the horizon, feeling nothing and wishing he felt less. 

The only place Peter Lukas’ smile reaches is his cheerful, irritating voice. “That’s right. So why fight it? At least this way, no one will be inconvenienced by worrying about you or have to write out of pity. You came to this island for a reason, and I’m just here to help.” Lukas shifts to a crouch in front of him, face smug and his posture relaxed, his hands behind his back. It occurs to Martin, from somewhere far away, that he sure talks an awful lot for someone who hates people. And then he punches Peter Lukas in the face.

Martin’s never punched anyone before, and it rocks through his fist, already bloodied from the scratches, but it’s a satisfying sort of collision. Even more satisfying when Peter staggers backwards, cursing, and Martin manages to kick him in the leg before he gets the chance to stand. He’s got one hand in his pocket, fisted around the letter his friends wrote him, and Martin is suddenly white-hot furious. 

Lukas, struggling to his feet, starts to say something else undoubtedly self-aggrandizing and way too long, but Penny interrupts him. She flicks hair right into his eyes, and he yelps, scratching uselessly at it. He fumbles around for just a moment longer, scrabbling and ridiculous. It’s not enough to make the water recede and the world return to life, but all he needs is the savage joy of watching the man who treated his entire life like a game flail around, only managing a red-eyed, squinted glare. Then he disappears, and Martin is alone at the top of the lighthouse, but that’s a relief, now.

In all their discussion on what to do if Peter Lukas did actually show up, the clearest thing was that he’d have to really convince him that he wouldn’t win his stupid fucking bet with Elias. It’d also been pretty apparent that fighting a monster, even a boring monster, without the element of surprise probably wouldn’t be very effective, so he had to get him overconfident (which was easier than he’d expected). And there was no way to stop him being forced into the lonely, either; all he could do was get out once there.

So Martin had relied on the power of love and also physical violence. Clinging to the people he cares about and knowing that they care about him too in order to push the lonely away, and, well, the punching to really drive it home. And because Lukas was even more insufferable than he’d imagined. 

But being alone doesn’t make him lonely. He knows his friends love him. They don’t just pity him or tolerate him or pretend to be his friends, but love him. Maybe Jon doesn’t love him in quite the way he spent so long wishing for, but that doesn’t mean love isn’t there, and Martin doesn’t wish the same anymore, either. 

And, of course, Michael loves him. They are in a love all their own, and it might be a little strange, and things won’t be easy sometimes, nothing can be easy all the time, but it will be enough. He trusts that they’re alright, that they’re safe; he has no other choice.

Annabelle loves him, too. In her own, odd way, but she does, in the writing of letters and small favors and simply keeping an eye or eight on him. And the townsfolk he’s met love him, even if it is in a small way of familiarity. Just waves and morning greetings and advice and friendly conversation, but that’s love, too. Penny loves him, in whatever way spiders can love, and he loves her.

Maybe his mother doesn’t love him, or maybe she does in a way that hurts. It doesn’t matter, really. Martin does love her, but he’s learning to love himself more, in the small ways that matter most. 

Unfortunately, knowing these things doesn’t stop the lonely around him from tearing itself apart.

Martin watches as the water bends and breaks, the horizon swallowed up by darkness, the lighthouse lurching beneath him as it stops being. The railing goes first, and then the stone behind him, then the floor underneath, and he falls towards water that is not there. 

The wind roars in his ears as he hurtles downwards, the sky distant and pitch-dark above him, his skin tingling with static or cold or nothing at all. He laughs, the sound loud against the nothing, delirious but still real. He only realizes he’s crying, too, when he sees the tears flying upwards, away from him, tiny, sparkling droplets against the dark sky, growing smaller and smaller. He thinks that they almost look like stars.

Martin stops falling.

* * *

It takes him a lot longer to actually wake up, with just bits and pieces of everything around him. The soft sounds of the real ocean with gulls overhead. The taste of dried salt on his tongue. The weight of eight tiny legs on his face.

Martin manages to crack open an eye and, sure enough, finds Penny shuffling around on his face, stilling to cling to him instead when he starts moving. When he gets both eyes open, it’s to see Sasha, Tim, and Jon swimming through his field of vision behind her legs, all of them talking at once, but everything they say just sounds like nonsense. Slowly, he plucks Penny off of his face, then pushes himself up into a sitting position. Sasha puts her hands on his shoulders, probably to try and keep him lying down, but she seems too concerned to actually put any force on him. His head starts to clear. Unfortunately, that means he’s aware of the fact that his clothes are all soaking wet and that his hand is burning with pain. Right, the lonely.

He sees that Annabelle’s standing just behind Jon, too, her arms crossed, and Helen’s a little further back, hovering near a purple door. None of this actually means anything yet. 

“Huh?” Martin asks, but instead of getting an answer, he gets dogpiled in a hug. It actually helps him to feel more like a person, enough that he can actually process words again. 

“Helen came to get us. You’re okay now, Martin.” Jon explains, pulling back, and he nods vaguely. “It um. It was three days before we were notified, I’ve been told.” Martin blinks. He feels like he just took the worst kind of nap, but that’s still clearly a problem.

“I was unconscious for three days? Wait, the light—” 

Annabelle cuts him off before he can start protesting. “You were gone for three days. You’ve only been here, and unconscious, for about ten minutes. I kept the lantern lit while you were indisposed, it was taken care of.” For a moment, the image of her rowing her way out to the island, climbing the stairs, and lighting the fire each night appears to him, calm, calculating Annabelle, and he finds himself touched. “When I felt like you’d be returning, I sent Helen to gather everyone. I thought you might need it.”

“Thank you. All of you. I um. I’m feeling okay. Mostly okay.” Mentally, he’s mostly caught up on the situation, but one of his hands is still bleeding and he's also pretty sure it's been sprained or even broken from the punch, which was still definitely worth it. And then he remembers what’s missing. “Michael! Where’s Michael?” Martin struggles to stand, his head spinning, looking towards the water they’d disappeared into, seeing nothing but blank ocean. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay; they just wanted to bring you some tea for when you woke up,” Sasha placates, nodding towards his cottage just as the door begins to open, and Martin takes off running, injuries be damned. 

Michael stops in their tracks, waiting for him with open arms and a mug in one hand, looking tired but unharmed. He tackles them in a hug, too relieved to worry, and they spin with him, holding him tight. All that matters is that they’re safe, they’re here, real beneath his arms and lips. They kiss him, and he doesn’t have to worry if he’s holding their face too tightly, doesn’t have to worry about anything at all. 

“Are you okay?” Martin asks against Michael’s lips, not wanting to pull away just yet, and they nod, purring at him.

“I am. I… am lucky to be resilient, but something like that won’t manage to destroy me. Are you?” Martin pulls a face,

“I wasn’t the one who got _impaled._ That seems uh, just a little serious.” He remembers watching their door refuse to appear, the blood on their chin and in their eyes, and buries his face in Michael’s neck.

“I am okay, Martin. I just couldn’t get to you. And you were the one in the lonely.”

“Yeah, but I’m alright. I’m okay now.” He murmurs, knowing it to be true. For a moment they just cling to each other, not wanting to let go. Martin feels his friends surround him, too, laughing and talking, their wonderful voices filling the air, and he is soaking wet and aching and exhausted and he is going to be happy. 

The lighthouse is his. He’s won it. He's won the life he’s made here. 

* * *

Winter comes and goes, long and deep as anything in the world, but he doesn’t dread it. He lives in it instead. There’s the warmth of the fireplace, a mug against the palms of his hands, Michael’s arms around his waist. He keeps the stove in the greenhouse stocked, which keeps the building warm and full of flowers and eventually real, actual vegetables that he grew from seeds. It is all warm. 

They learn that Michael’s body can scar. The mark from the harpoon is a ragged thing, through the center of their ribcage, the pale skin broken by sharp lines of raised, hazy color, all twisting ever-inward in a jagged patchwork. Martin gets a habit of running his fingers across it in the morning time, tracing the endless pattern with careful hands, not sure if he’s worried or relieved or simply touching. They don’t seem to quite get it, but let him anyway, watching with a fond smile. 

He writes to the archives often, and they visit every chance they get. Martin doesn’t write to his mother, who doesn’t write back, but he makes sure she’ll always have everything she needs. 

One morning, he finds a letter out on the beach from one Mike Crew, who he’s never even heard of, who apologizes very sincerely for helping out Peter Lukas, but, see, he’d owed quite the large favor and couldn’t really turn it down. He has nothing against Martin at all, but it’s just polite to pay off debts, and, hey, good on him for surviving! Martin stares at it for a long time, before writing a letter back that, sure, there’s no hard feelings, because he might as well not be rude, and the guy seems genuine.

More interesting are the letters that start pouring in from sailors and ship captains from all over the place. A lot of them say that they didn’t even know there was a lighthouse around at all, thanking him for actually maintaining it, describing particularly bad storms and foggy nights his light got them out of safely. He can’t find it in himself to be surprised that he only gets them now, when the earliest is dated just two days after he started his job here. 

Martin sits on the edge of the rocks as spring unfolds itself around him, feet dipped into the water and the ocean breeze rolling over him. He leans back, closing his eyes and letting the sun fall across his face, and doesn’t feel very lonely at all. 

* * *

If you happen to live in a particular little town on a particular little seaside, you’ll probably know the Lightkeeper. You’ll recognize him in the way he smiles, the way he learns your name, the way the other townsfolk greet him with such familiarity. He is a kind man in a bit of an awkward way, but he will always try to help. If you look a little bit lost, sitting by yourself in a room full of people, if you feel cold seeping in through the edges of your coat, the Lightkeeper will find you and sit by you, looking a little bit lost himself but staying until you feel better, and he will always stop to talk to you in the marketplace after. 

And, sometimes, there will be something with him. It should be a person, and there’s nothing that tells you it isn’t, not quite, but it is Not A Person. Is it the way they hold themselves, like there’s more of them, tucked away somewhere? Is it their smile, just a little bit too big? Is it the way their hands seem to flicker into Something Else, when they catch you staring? 

You stand in the market square, looking at the thing’s reflection in a puddle and knowing that it shouldn’t exist. That it does anyway. 

The Lightkeeper reaches up and kisses them on the cheek, pulling them towards the next stall, and the creature beams. Well. It might not be a person, but that’s not really any of your business. 

There are worse sorts of monsters, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning the ending of this fic, I thought "hey, to make Martin overcoming the lonely both distinct from the end of season 4 and also to really capture the development he's gone through, he should totally get out of the lonely through his own force of will!" and clearly mr. Jonny Sims had the same idea lol, so it was nice to be validated there. 
> 
> The official playlist for this fic is this: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Y3cChSV4D9s5INAZQcUgT?si=qL7JpFIdQcOHPBpjqidFBg And you can follow me on tumblr @ dykedistortion!
> 
> I found myself hesitating to edit this chapter a lot throughout the day, and even now I'm almost hesitant to post it, just because I know that it'll be finishing this fic. I started outlining and writing it in February and finished the rough draft in  
> May, which means I've been working on it for seven months now. Even as a writer, it's hard to put into words what this fic means to me--it was genuinely a huge source of comfort in dealing with the pandemic and being cut off from all of my friends, and has been a great way for me to express myself and escape. I really have put so much of myself into it, both in what's important to me and time, effort and thought, so it's very bittersweet to finally finish it up :'^). Thank you all for reading this fic, leaving kudos, and commenting, I really do appreciate every single hit/kudos/comment, especially as this is such a rarepair.
> 
> I am very attached to this world and I may end up writing a few little snippets set in it to post individually (they DEFINITELY end up adopting some chickens, just saying) at some point, and likely some more Michael/Martin in general because I like them together so much, but I'm not currently sure what my next tma fic will be, so we'll just have to see! Thank you all so much for reading <3 <3 <3


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